


The Way of the Mind

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Kind of angsty, M/M, Martial Arts, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Use, Sally is a bit of a bitch, Seriously very slow burn, Sherlock AU, Slow Burn, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 62,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective for NSY, but only for as long as he attends self-defense classes with the rest of Lestrade's team. It's Anderson's fault for getting jumped by a suspect hiding at a crime scene, but if that hadn't happened, Sherlock would never have met the Army-trained, dual-black belt holding instructor, John Watson, who seems to be better than a good homicide at calming the noise in Sherlock's head...





	1. Ichi/Hana

**Author's Note:**

> So if John had taken up martial arts, and been amazing at it, what could have been? Maybe this. I am using a lot of my own experiences in both Tae Kwon Do and Jiu Jitsu for the technical detail of this story, however my Korean and Japanese are rusty at best, so Mr. Internet is my resource. Korean spelling varies a lot as they use a different alphabet (and there are a number of dialects), so I've picked one website and I'll use their version throughout. Please let me know if there are any glaring issues with the languages in particular.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we learn why this is all Anderson's fault. Kind of.

“It’s obvious, Anderson, use your eyes and look!” Sherlock was exasperated, as usual. Why he thought that Anderson would be able to see what was right in front of his face...frustrated, he swirled his coat, pacing as Anderson pored over the body again. It was clear that Anderson had no idea what he had missed, and Sherlock just wanted to shout it at him, make him _see._

A wave of impatience overcame him, though, and he bit out, “It was the brother, look at her lipstick.” There was more to it than that, it was written all over the scene, but uncharacteristically Sherlock just couldn’t be bothered. Usually the big reveal, made him feel better, quieted the noise in his head. Especially the part where Anderson and the others looked shocked, then awed at what he could see that they could not. Today, though, the effort seemed too much. He could put up with the noise for a little longer, but not the scene. Not the overwhelming dullness, the sense of half-witted sluggishness that pervaded these scenes. Nobody looked, observed what was around them, questioned things. He couldn’t stand it, he had to get out of here and find something interesting to do.

He stormed out of the hotel room, across the lobby and out into the street. At some point, Lestrade would come for him, wanting more details, information with which they could build their case. Information that only Sherlock observed to make sense of out of that mess of a crime scene. It was usually thrilling, a euphoric moment when the pieces came together and he could read the scene like a book. He thrived on it, the chase, the intellectual challenge, knowing that moment would come right at the end. It quieted the maelstrom in his head, for a time at least. This time, though, he had been restless throughout the process. The case was only a 6 at best, of course; but still, it should have been enough to drown out the constant drone within his head. No matter how hard he focused, however, or tried to allow the process to consume him, the murmur remained, distracting him, stopping him being satisfied. At the scene, he had known it when the moment came and went without the usual shot of adrenaline, the relief that was second only to sexual release, as rarely as he experienced that. It had been happening lately, the expected high from solving a puzzle either diminished or, as in this case, conspicuously absent. The best he could do was to seek another case as soon as possible, and to hope that this one would give him what he needed.

+++

“Bored.” Sherlock announced as he marched into Lestrade’s office that afternoon. “Please tell me someone has been killed in a suitably complex way as to warrant my immediate and undivided attention.” He dropped dramatically into the chair opposite Lestrade’s desk, slumping over and looking expectantly at the detective.

“Afternoon, Sherlock.” Lestrade said in an overly patient voice.

“Yes it is, I can see why they give you the grand title of detective.” Sherlock was sarcastic and impatient, tapping long fingers on the arm of the chair in a frantic rhythm. His eyes were skittering around the room, he could feel it, coursing through him. He needed a puzzle, a good, complex puzzle to calm the machinery of his brain.

Lestrade sighed, though he didn’t rise to the argument. “Nothing since I saw you three hours ago,” Lestrade replied, “nothing case related, but I am glad you’re here, Sherlock, because we need to talk.”

Sherlock’s fingers didn’t pause, but his eyes were drawn to Lestrade’s face. God, he hoped Lestrade wasn’t going to invite him to some tiresome social gathering. He didn’t need a friend, or even want a colleague, really; if Lestrade would just let him solve the puzzles without interference, that would be enough. Looking over Lestrade, he doubted that was the case. It was more likely a work related requirement of some kind. Lestrade was stressed, running his hand over his hair and shooting apprehensive sideways glances at Sherlock. It wasn’t a personal, Sherlock related stress (as if Lestrade would really care if Sherlock came out for a drink, anyway), it was a work, Sherlock related stress (how would Sherlock respond to what he had to say?). Sherlock’s mind raced at what it could be. His eyes remained cool, however, and he waited in silence for Lestrade to speak.

“Anderson’s okay, by the way,” Lestrade began.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “I assume that’s relevant to this conversation,” Sherlock responded, “because I would otherwise disagree with that statement.”

Another sigh from the DI. “If you hadn’t made your pronouncement about the killer being the brother and then left so dramatically this morning, you would have seen said brother jump out of the hidden closet and attack Anderson.” Lestrade explained patiently. “A few stitches and a strained wrist, but he’ll be off for a week or so,” he continued, and Sherlock brightened at the news.

“Is that the good news, then? Nobody to get in my way at the next few scenes? Wonderful to hear, Lestrade.” He rose, still restless, but with a little glee in his countenance at the news of Anderson’s injury.

“Wait, Sherlock,” Lestrade’s tone stopped Sherlock at the door. “That’s not it.” Yet another sigh, and Lestrade leaned back against his desk, facing Sherlock, arms crossed. “The Chief has decided that before any auxiliary support staff can attend a crime scene, they will have to be actively enrolled in, or have passed, a self-defense course.” He said it matter-of-factly, but Sherlock was sure that there was a smirk under there somewhere.

Sherlock had stopped at the news, frozen, and now he spoke. “Auxiliary support staff?” he repeated incredulously. Lestrade nodded, clearly bracing for the storm he anticipated to rage from Sherlock at this statement. “Anyone who is not a sworn in police officer. Crime scene, clean up, security, transport…and consulting detectives.”

Sherlock sneered at this. “As if there is more than one. Did he mention me specifically?”

Lestrade snorted. “He doesn’t even know you’re there most of the time, Sherlock. He didn’t say your name, but if I can in any way cover my ass against you being at a crime scene, I will. You are going to have to do this training along with the rest.” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, a dozen arguments against it coming to his mind.

Before he could speak, Lestrade cut him off. “No training, no scenes, Sherlock.” Lestrade was adamant; his flat stare telling Sherlock that there was no wiggle room. Sherlock was speechless, a phenomenon clearly enjoyed by Lestrade, despite his wariness at the potential reaction to his pronouncement. The words were echoing in Sherlock’s head with a finality he did not like. He knew Lestrade a little now, as much as he knew anybody at the Yard, and Lestrade never made ultimatums he did not intend to honor. This warranted some thought.

Without another word, Sherlock swept from the office and back to Baker Street.


	2. Ni/Dul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet a man who had exchanged his fatigues for another kind of uniform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, BAMF!John. He'll take a bit to get warmed up, but just wait til you see him in action in the first class...
> 
> If you're interested, this is a good video of [Poomse Koryo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTU0jnGs4G0) being performed. The odd sound that you can hear is his uniform flicking (that's how crisp his movements are!). *shiver of delight

Sherlock was restless. The recent case was a six, at best, and that was being generous. The brother actually being in the wardrobe at the scene bumped up the rating, but it didn’t add to the complexity of the puzzle. Not that it mattered, the puzzle was over, solved, _boring_. And now there was nothing but the noise in his head again. He shifted on the couch, rolling his tall frame until he faced the leather back of the couch. As he contemplated starting that experiment with the thumbs, or seeing how many call girls he could get into Mycroft’s office before he lost his cool, a sound made him stop. It was a knock on the door. Three knocks, sharp but unhurried. Not a client. _Boring._ But his mind continued to deduce, and it stopped on _Lestrade._ Sherlock grunted. Also boring. At least he could find out if there was anything else interesting happening. Or pick his pocket.

Somewhat cheered by the notion of picking the pocket of Lestrade, Sherlock rolled over as Lestrade mounted the stairs. He slowed as he entered the living room of 221b, seeing Sherlock laying on his couch, suit immaculate and feet bare. If it wasn’t for the eyes, bright and alert and staring at him, Lestrade would have thought he was asleep. Bright and alert but not high, Lestrade noted, relieved from experience both personal and professional.

“Sherlock.” He greeted, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“I’ve texted a list of relevant points to Molly, they should allow even you to build a solid case. I would have sent them to Anderson, had I any confidence in his ability.” Sherlock sounded bored, impatient. Despite the initial flare of interest at Lestrade’s appearance, he found that he had no tolerance for this, for the slow-witted fumbling of the constabulary. With any luck, Lestrade would just go, without…

“Right. Well, thanks.” Lestrade replied, though he didn’t move.

“Was there something else?” Sherlock asked, his tone uninviting.

“Uh, no. Nothing.” Lestrade answered, then turned and left, stomping unnecessarily down the stairs, thought Sherlock grumpily. He was bored, bored, _bored._ There hadn’t been a decent case in weeks. Even the cold cases had been…pedestrian: women killing husbands, men killing wives. Sentiment all over the place, and none of it good. Why did people let this happen, he wondered, not for the first time. When this was the result so often, why did people do this to themselves? He could feel himself spiraling, slowly, but the weeks of boredom had been building on him. His head was full, so full, and busy. Nothing to quiet the noise, the questions, and he just needed to sleep. Despite what his brother thought, he did need sleep, but it did not come easily. It was the noises in his head, the voices, the endless questions, that stopped him from shutting down.

+++

 “Brother.” Sherlock said, without opening his eyes. Even with such a storm in his head, the characteristic sound of Mycroft’s ascent up his stairs had still registered.

“Brother.” Mycroft returned the greeting.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sherlock asked, leaping from the couch to pace around the room like a caged animal, all long limbs and constant motion. Turning at the fireplace, Sherlock saw his brother standing, silent and impassive, leaning on that ridiculous umbrella. “Well?” He asked, hearing a level of agitation in his own voice and hating it.

“I spoke to Lestrade. We agreed it was best I stop by.” Mycroft’s voice was, as ever, detached and calm. Sherlock continued pacing, needing the action after two hours of inactivity. The frantic mess in his head was overflowing into his body, the restless energy driving his feet back and forward against the hard floor of the flat. Despite the lack of interest evident in his voice, Sherlock could see the piercing gaze Mycroft was leveling at him, assessing his so called danger level, Sherlock determined wryly. How Mycroft loved labeling things.

“I’m fine, you can trot back to your little friend and…oh I forgot, didn’t I, you don’t believe in _friends.”_ sneered Sherlock. He knew Mycroft would see past his bluster but it was worth it to get that jibe in. Sure enough, a single eyebrow rose and Mycroft sighed dramatically.

“Oh Sherlock, even I can see you are not ‘fine’,” Mycroft drawled. “Can I assume that your recent case was not sufficient to satisfy your intellectual craving?” It irritated Sherlock when Mycroft could cut to the truth of a matter, ignoring the harsh façade that Sherlock erected to deter most people.

“Barely a six,” he shrugged, “I never expected to be overly stimulated by it.”

Mycroft nodded, unconvinced. “I have noted a significant decrease in the period of time for which a successful case will placate your need to…indulge.” He phrased this delicately, but to Sherlock, the subtext was clear: _the puzzles aren’t working anymore, are they?_ Sherlock scowled, still pacing, knowing Mycroft was right. His mind was not clear, as it should be; he had not slept again last night, as he should have; things were not right. He needed a new challenge, and soon. Without Lestrade’s help, his chances of that challenge being an interesting, crime related puzzle were basically zero. He knew it, Mycroft knew it, and Mycroft knew that he knew. Very annoying.

“Go away.” Sherlock told his brother abruptly, moodily picking up his skull from the mantle.

“You have no choice, you know.” Mycroft spoke again, ignoring Sherlock’s directive. “If you don’t humor Lestrade and attend these self-defense classes, even this poor substitute for your puzzles will be gone.” He looked down at his umbrella and continued, “Nobody wants to see what happens then, Sherlock, I assure you.”

“Oh, Mycroft, do you worry about me?” Sherlock mocked, replacing the skull as he passed the mantle once more.

“Constantly.” Mycroft replied without emotion. When Sherlock didn’t reply, Mycroft sighed once again.

“I’ll send a car. First class is on Wednesday evening, I’m sure I can convince Lestrade to send over some cold cases to tide you over. Be well, brother.” The elder brother turned deliberately and made his way down the stairs.

Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. If he couldn’t figure a way around Lestrade in this, he would have no choice but to attend these ridiculous classes. No other detective would tolerate him, despite his abilities. He was cognizant enough to know that he was too abrasive, too abrupt for most detectives, and Lestrade was the only one willing to overlook that for the benefit it gave him. Grudgingly, Sherlock had to admit to himself that Lestrade was risking the furthering of his own career in allowing Sherlock access to his crime scenes. He respected the detective, his hard work and occasional ability to overlook meaningless bureaucracy working to Sherlock’s advantage and therefore earning his approval. He gave Sherlock leeway that others would not, and, most importantly, he never belittled Sherlock, despite his frustrations. All of these thoughts lead Sherlock to one conclusion, and an annoying one at that: he had no choice but to do the classes. Oh what joy, he thought sarcastically.

+++

John closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he drew a layer of calm around himself. He began to move slowly, his body turning automatically to begin the movements of the poomse. The patterns of movement were like dancing, he often thought; almost like tai chi when done slowly, they demanded attention to detail in order to be beautiful. John’s body was fluid as he shifted, allowing the muscle memory in his body to take him through the Poomse Koryo. He had learned this sequence as a fifteen year old, his first year as a first dan black belt, and he had practiced faithfully for almost all the years in between. Even so, without his full concentration, the details blurred and his body tended to slur through some of the actions. If he wanted it to be clean he had to clear his mind of all distractions and _focus_.

After another half an hour, John sat down, relaxing his body and stretching out the increasing number of aches and pains he carried around these days. He kept his eyes closed as he reviewed his plan for this next class he was due to teach. One of his regular students had recommended him for the job – teaching a course in close range self-defense to a group of crime scene techs. Apparently, one of them had been jumped at a scene and the powers that be were worried about being sued or something, so John’s name had come up as somebody that could be able to help. True, his background in both Tae Kwan Do and Jiu jitsu, as well as his Army career, put him in good stead for this kind of thing. He had tried it before, though, and found one commonality: it didn’t work if people didn’t want to be there. People who were instructed to come to classes like these rarely embraced it. Resentment tended to be the flavor of the day, and he simply wasn’t interested in teaching people who weren’t interested in learning. That was why he had let that side of his business fade out, concentrating on teaching classes to people who actually wanted to learn. He made ends meet with his part time medical practice, and he had enough time and energy to focus on the classes he wanted to teach. It was a good set up, but when Warren had mentioned how much they would be paying, he couldn’t say no. It was a lot of money for a few evenings’ work, and goodness knew he didn’t have anything else happening right now.

Sighing to himself, he glanced at the clock. Just enough time for a quick shower and something to eat before he would need to leave for the dojang. Better get moving. As he went through the motions of showering and dressing for the class, John’s mind wandered over his life again. He had flourished in the Army, loving the discipline and excelling at the physical challenge it presented. As a doctor, though, these skills were rarely tested in the field. Despite that, he had felt at home in the Army, being around people who pushed themselves to the limit every day, who worked hard and played hard. Injuring himself while on leave had been an irony even he couldn’t ignore. He had spent months on the front line without being hurt.

Coming home, the first Jiu jitsu competition he enters, some inexperienced kid body slams him, ruining his shoulder and his career in one moment. The Army gave him an honorable medical discharge, but no pension as his injury was not sustained in the course of his employment with them. That left him with no career and a very long road to rehab. He had gone back to training but his shoulder had never felt right again. He still loved Jiu jitsu, but his focus had now shifted to the formwork, or poomse, of Tae Kwon Do. It helped him focus, distracted his mind from his anger, as suggested by his therapist. He could do his work as a GP easily, and although he had fun with his junior martial arts classes and the women’s self-defense groups, it lacked the challenge of his former world. Perhaps if he had been able to go back to Jiu jitsu competition, there would have been something for which to aim, some goal to motivate him. His shoulder would never stand up to it, though, and so he was locked in a world of sameness, where each week passed much like the last. Sometimes, the grey veil threatened to overtake him, and there was nothing he could do about it.


	3. San/Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John meets Sherlock.

Lestrade almost had to pull Sherlock bodily from the car when it pulled up to the Community Centre on Wednesday evening. Mycroft had wisely elected to send the car to collect the detective first, thus ensuring that there was someone to motivate Sherlock both into the car at Baker Street, and back out again when they reached their destination.

“Why are you even here?” Sherlock asked Lestrade as they made their way into the building. The receptionist directed them down a hallway to an open space.

As they walked, Lestrade replied, “Good for morale if I show up. Besides, it might be fun.” At the disbelieving look on Sherlock’s face, Lestrade commented, “Might even get to see someone throwing you around for a change.”

This did nothing for Sherlock’s attitude, which had arrived in the vicinity of resentful when Lestrade had taken one look at Sherlock’s suit and wordlessly handed him the bag that had been in the back of Mycroft’s car. As a result, Sherlock was now dressed in a plain t-shirt and grey tracksuit pants, all hidden under his usual coat and scarf. He had not spoken a word to Lestrade on the ten minute drive, much to Lestrade’s pleasure. A quiet trip was the best one could hope for, really.

As they approached, Sherlock looked around the space. It was not particularly large, about the size of a school classroom, he thought. The analogy came to him as there were school-type chairs and table stacked against one wall; this space was obviously not always used as a training space. Lestrade approached the only occupant of the room, shaking hands as Sherlock trailed behind him. Sherlock noted that despite his shorter stature, the man seemed quietly confident in himself.

He smiled easily at Lestrade, who spoke as he indicated Sherlock. “I’m Greg Lestrade, pleased to meet you. John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. He is a…consultant for the Yard. Sherlock, John Watson, he’ll be running our classes for the next six weeks.” Sherlock nodded briefly, then stalked over to sit on one of the tables, ignoring the others. The cold cases that Lestrade had offered had been irritatingly satisfying, allowing him to quiet his head enough to sleep a few hours each night. That didn’t mean that Sherlock wasn’t annoyed at him, though – he had obviously been withholding the suitable cold cases if he could come up with such an appropriate selection at short notice. Sherlock was annoyed with pretty much everybody, including himself for not figuring a way out of this ridiculous venture. As he sat brooding and wondering exactly how serious Lestrade was about denying him access to crime scenes, John Watson approached, holding a heavy garment.

“You’ll need to put this on. Let me know if you need help with the belt,” he said, extending the garment to Sherlock. Sherlock did not take it, continuing instead to look out of the window. John laid it over the table next to Sherlock, along with a long white belt. Although John was not in Sherlock’s field of vision, he could sense him still standing there. Usually, it made him feel claustrophobic to have someone standing so close, but he felt…protected. The sensation was unusual, more acute than any he was used to, and Sherlock was not sure he was entirely comfortable with it.

“Get dressed, please Mr. Holmes. Class starts in five minutes.” John spoke quietly, but Sherlock could hear the steel underlying the mild tone. It seemed to send a tremor up his spine, and he turned sharply to look at John properly. He was much shorter than Sherlock, and probably a few years older; his face made Sherlock think of adjectives such as trustworthy, determined, and strong. It was his eyes, though, that captured Sherlock’s attention. That was where the steel was evident, in the leveling gaze that he was now sending Sherlock’s way, looking past his excuses and the facade to the person underneath. Irritating though that gaze was when it came from his brother, from John it was somehow interesting. Sherlock was still trying to decide what to say (sarcastic? Sincere?) when John moved away to greet the rest of the class, including Anderson, Donovan and three others that Sherlock knew by sight but not name. Anderson’s wrist was still bandaged, and he suspected Lestrade had insisted on his attendance.

It turned out the heavy garment was the jacket of a _gi_ , a Japanese style martial arts uniform. It was padded and reinforced, designed to withstand the grappling and throwing typical of jiu jitsu. The jacket was easy enough, but the belt was another matter. John and his assistant, a young man whose name Sherlock didn’t bother to learn, showed everybody how to wrap the belts around their waists to hold the jacket closed. They then checked the knots were tight, tugging on the ends of the belt to ensure they did not come off. As John moved in front of Sherlock, gripping and pulling on the ends of his belt, Sherlock was enveloped by the scents he brought with him. Shampoo and soap, and something sharp and almost floral. Not a perfume, something medicinal, perhaps? Sherlock’s mind was racing, trying to identify the scent, when he realised that the rest of the class was waiting for him to join them. He was still standing by his coat and scarf, while the rest of the group had moved to the middle of the room.

John leaned in to Sherlock and said quietly, “Greg asked me to remind you that you need to pass this class in order to continue to have access to crime scenes, Mr. Holmes. I’m here to help you do that, but it won’t work if you don’t make an effort and focus.” Sherlock was too startled to do anything but nod and join the rest of the class, standing in a group around John and his assistant.

“Welcome to your self-defense classes, I’m John and this is Kyle. Just to give you some background, Kyle has been training with me for six years, and has just earned his black belt in jiu jitsu. He is here to help me demonstrate and to help you as we go through a range of scenarios and principles I hope you will find useful. I’ve been training in Tae Kwon Do since I was six, which is more years than I care to name, and Jiu jitsu since I was twenty. I hold a fifth degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and a second degree black belt in Jiu jitsu. I have held national titles in both disciplines several times, and I studied hand to hand combat, both armed and unarmed, during my time in the Army.” He smiled a little, flashing a dimple that Sherlock had not previously noticed. “I’m pretty qualified, as you can see. That’s usually the first question people ask at these things, so I thought I’d get that part out of the way.”

“Now, over the next six weeks, we will be going through a number of scenarios together, looking at ways to deal with offenders both armed and unarmed, and how to diffuse those situations. We will practice, and you will be able to do it. Here, in this brightly lit room, with people you know moving slowly, while you are concentrating on nothing else.” His voice turned more serious. “Realistically, though, the only way you will be able to be confident in your ability to respond to a threat in the real world is through practice. My classes are open to all of you, as often as you wish, for the duration of our course. I can show you how to defend yourself, but if you don’t practice, you won’t get any better. And if you don’t get better across these six weeks, I won’t pass you.” The room was dead silent at this point. Sherlock was dumbfounded. This John, this quiet, unassuming man, had commanded the attention of a room full of people without even trying, so it seemed. Moreover, he had stopped the noise in Sherlock’s head more effectively than almost anything he had tried. He had been mesmerized by the cadence of John’s voice, by his confidence and conviction in what he was saying. Not a single comment, or snide remark, or criticism had come to his mind, and he had absolutely no idea how John had done it. As he shook his head slightly to restore his focus, he could see John looking at him, a small smile on his face, as though he could see inside Sherlock’s head. “Right, let’s start with some basics. I prefer to run these classes like my usual classes, hence the fancy dress.” He indicated the _gi_ they were all wearing.

“These _gi_ are traditional, but also practical. When you are grabbing at collars and things, it’s better to have something solid to reach for. The belts you are wearing are white, indicating that you are beginners. Please treat them with respect – all levels of experience are treated with respect, and your belt and gi are demonstrations of your respect for yourself, martial arts in general and other judoka or jeja. Bring them if you chose to attend any other classes. You will notice I use a lot of Korean and Japanese words, and I sometimes move back and forth – that’s because we will be using techniques from both Tae Kwon Do, which is Korean, and Jiu jitsu, which is Japanese. In this class, where the focus is self-defense, there will be more Jiu jitsu, and Japanese terminology. Please let me know if I forget and don’t tell you what something means.”

John paused, looking around the group, then, satisfied that nobody had any questions, he smiled again.

“Let’s begin with a warm up.”

Twenty minutes later, they took a brief pause for a drink while John and Kyle readied their equipment, spreading soft fall matting across the floor. Sherlock took a cup of water from the cooler provided and tried to steady his breathing. Unlike most of the others, he spent a fair bit of time running, generally away from Lestrade, his brother or assorted people who wanted to kill him. All of them, however, were out of breath at John’s version of a warm up. Sherlock dreaded to think of what the actual class would consist. He hadn’t enjoyed it, exactly, but the sound of John’s voice leading the group had stirred something on which he could not put his finger. It wasn’t precisely exhilarating, or freeing, or comforting. He hadn’t had room in his head for anything else, though, as his mind had been analyzing all data from John Watson as fast as it came in. His voice, gait, the way he expertly watched over his charges and kept them moving through a series of stretches and calisthenics, all was gathered and analyzed as though it might contain some clue as to the nature of John Watson. So far, though, very little light had been shed. Oh, Sherlock could tell things about him, but nothing important, nothing _personal_. And that in itself was cause for analysis. Since when had he wanted to know personal things about people? Why this man? What on earth was it that made him so fascinating? He could feel the brooding coming on again, and was caught between wanting to go to his mind palace for some focused John Watson time, and snapping back to the class, in which he could gather more data. Data won, when Lestrade, grinning, took his cup and dragged him back, saying, “No escape, Sherlock.”


	4. Shi/Net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is short and Sherlock is tall.

“So working with your attacker’s momentum can be a useful tool.” John concluded, facing Kyle and giving a slight bow of thanks and respect as they finished their demonstration.

“Yes, Sally?” He responded to Donovan’s raised hand.

“I can see how that works when you’re about the same height but what if they’re a lot taller than you?” She asked, “If his arms are much longer, you won’t be able to get to his torso before that knife hits you.”

John nodded. “Good point. I have a lot of experience working with people taller than me,” He said, grinning at their quiet laughter. Suddenly, he pointed at Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, if you would.” He beckoned Sherlock forward, and the taller man moved forward awkwardly, unsure what John was asking. The instructor raised one hand. “Before we work together, it’s considered polite and respectful to bow to your partner. Feet together, palms open by your side, look to the floor to demonstrate trust.” He demonstrated and Sherlock reciprocated, though a little stiffly. 

John gave him the rubber knife, and said, “Stab me, if you would, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock just looked at him uncertainly. “Just as Kyle did, we’ll start with right handed, from the hip, slow motion so we can talk it through.” He nodded encouragingly, and Sherlock did as he asked. As he stepped forward with his right leg, Sherlock thrust the knife forward with his right hand, aiming at John’s abdomen. John stepped around the knife towards Sherlock, explaining as he did how his action of moving into Sherlock negated the advantage Sherlock’s longer arms gave him. Along with the element of surprise, he continued, that was generally enough to put the attacker off balance and return the advantage to John. As he spoke, John pushed sharply across his body with the heel of his right hand, connecting behind Sherlock’s right elbow, pushing the knife across and further away from his own body.

“But he’s still got the knife.” Sally pointed out, and Sherlock scowled at her. She smiled sweetly back at him, and Sherlock knew she was hoping John would use Sherlock as a crash test dummy.

“Yes he does,” John conceded. “There are lots of defenses against this kind of attack, Sally, but we are looking at simple, uncomplicated things that are easy to do in close quarters.” He paused. “I can show you some others if you like.” All of the others nodded enthusiastically, except Sherlock.

John looked at him and grinned. “Don’t worry, Kyle’s used to getting thrown around, I’ll use him for this.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock countered, unwilling to give up both his proximity to John and the strategic point to Sally.

John’s eyebrows rose, and he asked, “Do you have any experience falling safely, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock snapped, his face reddening under the scrutiny. “And it’s Sherlock.”

John shrugged dubiously, then glanced at Lestrade. The detective was studying Sherlock’s face, and he sighed resignedly then nodded at John.

“Okay, let’s do the same attack, then, and I’ll go through a few more advance moves.” John said, turning to Sherlock.

“We’ll go slowly again, and I’ll talk through the motions.” John told Sherlock, and they began. Again and again, Sherlock attacked John and he responded differently each time, explaining how physics and psychology worked to help him disarm Sherlock. He relaxed into it as John had explained earlier, allowing John’s hands to guide his body into various positions, generally with at least one major joint locked under John’s control. He could feel John’s body heat through their padded jackets, the firm musculature under his gi pressing various parts of John’s body against various parts of Sherlock’s. It was curiously intimate, the trust and close proximity of their bodies, and Sherlock felt as though it was only he and John in the room, despite their audience. As he prepared again to attack, John stepped back, signaling a break.

“I have a few more to show, but they really need a full speed action to work properly,” John said to Sherlock. “Do you think that’s something you’d be alright with?” Sherlock nodded without pause. He had seen and felt John work now, and he knew that John was a careful and considerate partner. He would not deliberately perform an action that he could not control, and he was aware of the limitations of Sherlock’s inexperience body in this context. And if Sherlock had to be honest with himself, he would have continued even if all that had not been true, if only to prolong his experience working with John.

John returned Sherlock’s gaze, his eyes focused and ready. He nodded to Sherlock, who moved in fast, thrusting the rubber knife with the intent to bury it in John’s abdomen. A blurry second later, he was lying on his back on the floor, the breath knocked out of him.

John leaned over him, offering his hand. “Again?” he asked, and Sherlock readied himself in response. Same attack, same blurry second, and this time Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach on the floor, gasping for breath again. He rose, searching for the knife, which John returned to him. Another attack. This time, the second wasn’t as blurry, as John did not throw him; however he did find that his knife arm was twisted painfully high on his back, John’s arm threaded between his bent elbow and his shoulder blade, the leverage locking his shoulder and reflexively releasing his hand.

“As you can see,” John said conversationally, despite his hold on Sherlock, “This response allows me to disarm the attacker and then maintain control. Throws are well and good, but you lose control when you lose contact with the other person. In this case, I still have close contact, so I can maintain control of the situation.” Sherlock could hear John, but his focus was on the close contact of which John was speaking. He was pressed close up against Sherlock’s back, their arms entwined, and if it wasn’t for the pain in his shoulder, Sherlock would say that he was quite comfortable with the situation.

The group broke into spontaneous applause, and John released Sherlock, who was rubbing his shoulder ruefully. They faced again, bowing, and John shook Sherlock’s hand in thanks. “That’s it for this week,” John said to them all, “I’d like to finish with a bow, if you don’t mind. Since we are standing, just a simple ending." He barked two words in Korean, and the group followed Kyle’s lead.

“Cha ryuht,” Kyle came to attention.

“Kyung-nae,” Kyle bowed, as did John and the rest of the class.

“Thank you, see you next week,” John dismissed them, and they broke apart, Anderson and Donovan moving together to their bags, the others standing to talk to John. Sherlock walked slowly back over to the table on which he had left his coat, tugging at his belt at the same time. He removed it, folded it carefully before removing his gi and folding that too. He would need to bring a bag next week, probably with water too, he thought. Drinking from the cup he’d filled earlier, Sherlock stood lost in thought, barely noticing Lestrade bid him farewell. His body was tired after their session, but his mind was clear and calm, and he revelled in the simple pleasure of thinking about one thing at a time, without distraction. _John._

“You surprised me tonight, Mr. Holmes.” John’s voice behind him made Sherlock swing around. The rest of the room was empty, even Kyle having left. John smiled at Sherlock, waiting for his reply. He’s quite patient, Sherlock thought.

Shrugging into his coat, Sherlock said, “Sherlock, please. How so?”

“I’d been warned that you would be hard work.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, his hands tying his scarf as second nature. “By whom?” He asked.

John shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and turned towards the door, waiting as Sherlock picked up his gi and belt and moved with him. “People.”

“Lestrade.” John nodded.

Sherlock frowned. “What did he say?” 

John’s mouth quirked. “Argumentative, stroppy, abrupt, rude. He’ll read your life and he’ll be so right it’s annoying.” John admitted, and Sherlock thought about that for a moment, before saying, “Sounds about right.” They stopped outside the door of the now dark Community Centre into the cool night air.

“You didn’t read my life.” John said, and it sounded like a challenge. He took his hands out of his pockets and spread his arms, a clear invitation to do so. Sherlock smiled a little at the challenge, then his gaze swept over John.

“Well you’ve told us about your martial arts background, your army service.” Sherlock began, “but you didn’t say that you’re actually a doctor, not a soldier. You’ve injured your left shoulder quite severely and your left knee and right elbow have also had significant injuries in the past. Eastern medicine works best and you employ it regularly, especially on your shoulder. You are the eldest son, father passed away but mother still lives to the north of London. You don’t see her as often as she likes, but always make the effort on her birthday and at Christmas, when you buy her either flowers or chocolates.” Sherlock stopped, and John stared, open mouthed. He hadn’t realised it until he had started, but Sherlock wished he hadn’t done that, deduced John’s life. It never ended well, and now John would inevitably think…

“That was bloody brilliant.”

Sherlock blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seriously, how did you know all that?” John was looking at Sherlock intently, clearly waiting to hear the process behind the prestige.

“That’s not what people usually say.” Sherlock replied.

“What do they usually say?” John asked.

“Piss off.” Sherlock said dryly, and both men chuckled.

“Well, I think it’s amazing.” John said. There was an awkward pause in which both men recognized that this was when they should be saying goodnight, see you next week, thanks very much. Sherlock had no idea what to say, except that he didn’t want to say any of those things. He wanted to stay here with John Watson, fascinating John, until next weeks’ class. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, just watched John’s expression flicker across his face.

Finally, John cleared his throat. “Um, well, you did a good job tonight, Mr…Sherlock. I’ll see you next week.” John extended his hand to shake Sherlock’s, then grinned again and walked briskly in the direction of the tube, his military career all over his gait.

Sherlock stood for a moment watching him walk away, then turned and scowled up into the CCTV camera, miming, “Where’s the car?”

Within two minutes, one of Mycroft’s cars had appeared to take him back to Baker Street. Despite the persistent calm in his head, there was a lot to think about after this most surprising evening.


	5. Go/Dasut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John thinks about Sherlock.

John’s flat was depressing. There was no other word for it, yet it still took him by surprise when he came home, especially in the evening after a class. The dreary paint, second-hand furniture and lack of personal belongings made it seem like the temporary accommodation it was intended to be when he had moved in, two years ago. He usually braced himself for it, but tonight his mind was preoccupied. He dropped his training bag in the hall and turned to put on the kettle before sitting leaning against the counter, lost in thought. Tonight had gone much as expected, although this class seemed more motivated than most. Knowing their job was on the line might do that, he thought wryly. In fact, if it became the norm for the Yard to require this kind of thing of their non-police employees, he might end up with more classes like this one. John wasn’t really sure how he felt about that. More work was good, of course, but the sameness of teaching self-defense for beginners five nights a week was not what he was looking for. His life was predictable enough as it was.

The most surprising person had been Sherlock Holmes. He had been interested to know what he would be like, after an intriguing phone call the previous week with the DI, Greg Lestrade.

“Hi, John, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. You’re running a self-defense course for some of my people from this Wednesday.”

“Of course, Detective Inspector. What can I do for you?”

“It’s Greg, please. I just wanted to give you a heads up about one guy in particular. His name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” John was amused by the unusual name.

“I know, it’s an odd one. He’s a bit difficult, but a word of advice about dealing with him, if I may.”

“Of course. I thought all your people would be out of a job if they didn’t pass this course?”

“Well, yeah, but Sherlock doesn’t actually work for us. It’s a long story. If he gives you any trouble, though, just remind him that he won’t be getting any access to crime scenes unless he passes this course. Feel free to remind him that you’re the one who decided who passes and fails, too. Might get him to cooperate with you a bit easier.”

“Right. Sounds like he’s a handful.”

“You have no idea.”

“What’s he like, then?”

Greg paused for a moment, then said, “Argumentative, stroppy, abrupt, rude. He’ll read your life and he’ll be so right it’s annoying.” 

John blinked. “Okay then. I guess I’ll see you on Wednesday, then.”

“Righto. See you then.”

In his kitchen, John shook his head. He had pictured a sullen teenager type, probably someone’s kid, poking around because he got bored and quite frankly pissing everybody off. Maybe doing a little background digging and bringing it out to impress and embarrass people. From what Greg had said, though, he was brilliant. So why was he hanging around a crime scene? Moreover, why did they put up with him if he was so unpleasant?

Well, that question had been answered at the dojang. John taught more Tae Kwon Do now than Jiu jitsu, and the Korean term seemed more fitting for their training space than the Japanese ‘dojo’. He had arrived and warmed up, running though a light sparring session with Kyle, a promising young black belt he was hoping might continue on to teach with him in the future. When the first two students arrived, and Greg introduced them, John’s gaze swept interestedly over Sherlock. So this was he, the great, stroppy tag-along. He didn’t seem to be annoying, John thought, though those cheekbones were annoying, from a genetic lottery perspective. He was quite tall, and lanky, and John automatically evaluated how he could most effectively neutralize him should he become a threat. Old habits die hard, he thought to himself, then turned to pick up the brand new uniform items they needed to distribute.

The business of getting the class started fell mainly to Kyle, as John moved over to Sherlock who had deliberately separated himself from the others. Not all that social, or comfortable here, actually, John realised from his body language. He was more awkward than stroppy, John thought. He offered him a gi and belt, but Sherlock didn’t respond. It wasn’t until John turned on his teacher voice, the one he used with the smaller students, that he produced a reaction out of Sherlock. The man turned and fixed his gaze on John, and my God, those eyes. They were pale, a range of greens and blues, and they looked intently at John as though reading his soul. John gave as good as he got, holding Sherlock’s gaze without comment, then leaving to help the other students. He was almost shaken by the interaction – the man had not spoken a word, hell, John had barely spoken a word, and yet he had the distinct feeling that Sherlock had been assessing him for something. He was interesting, that much was true, and John wondered how different he was at a crime scene to earn such a description from Greg Lestrade.

As John was ready to start the class, he saw Sherlock still standing apart from the rest of the group. He frowned a little. Was he practicing passive resistance? His face was blank, as though he was thinking, and he didn’t seem to notice the others moving around. John sighed to himself. This could be a long class if he had to give so much personal attention to one student. When he spoke to Sherlock, however, the response was immediate. He joined the class without complaint and worked through the warm-up with the others. Sherlock seemed to take the warning at the start quite seriously, and John couldn’t help but smile at him. Little did he know that John had never failed a student. Several had come for extra lessons, but John always made sure his students had understood what he was teaching them. If Sherlock thought that he could make John fail him, to get out of these lessons, he was wrong. John watched all the students, correcting technique here and there, and there was nothing noteworthy about Sherlock. Mentally, he shrugged. Perhaps Lestrade was exaggerating.

By the end of the lesson, John was pleased. The extra motivation of having one’s job on the line seemed to be working for this group. They had worked well in pairs and small groups, going slowly through some armed attacker setups and planned defenses. When Sally had brought up the height differential issue, John had to stop himself rolling his eyes. She was taller than him, taller than most of the class, in fact: this was an issue she was unlikely to face. When he saw her glance at Sherlock, he realised her tactic – make John throw Sherlock around, who was the obvious choice as he was the tallest, at least five or six inches on John. Sally didn’t like Sherlock, that much had been clear from the snide little remarks she had made at his expense all evening. It was a good point, however, and Sherlock surprisingly agreed to participate. John rarely did demonstrations on beginner students as many things could go wrong – people would freeze, or try to anticipate, lock joints or fail to commit. Any of these could lead to dislocations or other nasty injuries. John was surprised at the confidence with which Sherlock moved through the demonstration. He shouldn’t have been, having seen the man practicing with other students throughout the lesson. He moved fluidly, clearly in control of his long arms and legs. His knowledge of physiology and anatomy was evident, too, in his accuracy when manipulating joints and placing strikes. They moved well together, in fact, Sherlock allowing John to move his body through a range of defense scenarios without second guessing or tensing up. He seemed to trust John’s ability to do so, and John found this oddly flattering. The throws at the end were a bit of showing off, admittedly, but it felt good to do some ‘at-speed’ run-throughs, and Sherlock committed well to the attacks, making the defenses roll as smoothly as if they had been rehearsed. He landed pretty well, too, protecting his head and torso from much of the impact. He had been surprised and impressed by Sherlock, that much was true, as was his interest in the man.

John rose from the bench to make himself a cup of tea. Yes, this Sherlock would be very interesting to work with. He wondered if he would be tempted to take up any other classes. He moved well and seemed to enjoy it, and, John admitted to himself, John was intrigued by this man who seemed so ordinary and brilliant and yet elicited such a vivid description from a Scotland Yard Police Detective.


	6. Roku/Yeosup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John sees the Sherlock that Lestrade knows, and meets an odd man in a black car, who doesn't take him to lunch.

It was only 10.30am. John sighed. Another endless day of low grade fevers, runny noses and contraceptive refills. While his GP job did pay the bills, it was neither exciting nor challenging. John was thankful to have marketable skill on which he could fall back; he had two in fact, if his martial arts expertise could be counted as such. Continuing his medical career allowed him to continue to enjoy his martial arts, however, a fact for which John was very grateful. If he had to rely on teaching for his income, there would be a lot more beginners classes, a lot more pressure, and he knew that he would soon tire of the whole thing, resenting his students and the practice he currently loved. Having said all that, he was bored. He needed excitement, and he had absolutely no idea where to get it.

Without warning, the door to his examination room burst open and Sherlock Holmes entered.

“Sherlock?” John exclaimed, jumping to his feet. Sherlock was almost manic, John thought, pacing around the tiny room, running his hands through his hair and muttering to himself.

“Sherlock?” John repeated, more tentative this time. “Are you alright?” Sherlock looked at him, a sudden, intense gaze that froze his whole body.

“I’m fine John, well, I will be. I need something from you, though.” Sherlock was quite serious, John thought, and he wondered if the man was trying to press their acquaintance for a drug score.

“And what is that?” John asked, sitting down and indicating that Sherlock should do the same. Sherlock looked sideways at the seat, sighed dramatically and dropped into it, his knees still bouncing and hands twisting as he sat forward, energy radiating from his every pore. John was mesmerized and a little alarmed. He looked almost desperate, like an addict needing a hit, John thought. Maybe this was how he was at crime scenes? Part of his brain mused on this while the rest tried to figure out what exactly Sherlock was doing here.

“I need another class.” Sherlock said, not meeting John’s eyes. John could see a pink flush come across his cheeks, and he was speechless.

“Pardon?” John asked in surprise. Another class?

“Another class, another self-defense class. It was better than the puzzles, better than the work.”

John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. “What worked? Worked how?” he asked. He could see that Sherlock was agitated, and he was concerned that he would do something impulsive if John flat out denied him, even though he had no idea what Sherlock was actually asking of him.

Sherlock grunted in frustration at John’s inability to understand. “Focusing on the class quieted the noise in my head.” Sherlock explained as though explaining basic mathematics to a child.

John nodded cautiously. “Ae you schizophrenic, Sherlock?” he asked carefully, wondering if the noise was actually voices.

“No! Don’t you see?’ Sherlock burst out. “My brain works fast, faster than normal peoples’. If I don’t give it something to do it just” he rolled his hands over and over, fast and out of control, “goes and goes. I need puzzles to stop it from flying apart. It’s the only thing that works.” He stopped moving then, looking intently at John again, leaning forward as though imploring him. “Until now. Until that class. Focusing on the technicalities of those sequences was better than any puzzle I’ve ever found. I need more! Now, John!”

“You want me to leave my job right now and run a self-defense class for you?” John asked. That couldn’t be right. There was no way someone would expect…

“Yes. Exactly. Let’s go.” Sherlock declared, grabbing John’s wrist as though to drag him out.

John easily twisted out of the grip and stood up. “No, Sherlock. I can’t just get up and leave.” John still didn’t really understand what Sherlock was talking about, but it was clear that he was used to getting his way when he was behaving like this. If this was how he usually behaved, John could understand why Lestrade and the others used words like ‘arrogant’ and ‘rude’ to describe him. He looked as though he was about to have a tantrum at John’s refusal to drop everything and accompany him. Yet John could see the anxiety that was driving the behaviour.

“You have to!” Sherlock replied desperately. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated even in the bright room, John could see. Not good.

“I am working here until 5pm. I have a class at 5.30 at the Community Centre. If you would like to join us you would be more than welcome.” John offered. He would not deny Sherlock the opportunity to train with him, but damned if he was going to rearrange his life to accommodate the man. Sherlock glared at John, and John glared right back. Sherlock whipped out his mobile phone and tapped a few keys, then resumed his pacing of John’s office.  

“Should I call Greg to come and get you?” John asked. He didn’t want to send Sherlock away in this condition, not for another seven hours until tonight’s class.

Sherlock looked confused. “Who’s Greg?” He asked.

“Greg. Lestrade. The DI?” John repeated himself.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. My brother will be here shortly,” Sherlock replied. John nodded uneasily. He sat for a few moments in tense silence, Sherlock pacing the entire time. A knock at the door and Sherlock leapt up and opened it, allowing an attractive brunette to come in.

She stood in the doorway, however, and said distractedly, “Car’s here, Sherlock.” Sherlock bounded out without a backwards glance or word to John. The brunette turned to John and gave him a card. “Your lunch reservation.” He took it reflexively, glancing down at the lone phone number, then looked up to see the empty space where she had stood. He stared for a moment, then shook his head and closed the door. By far the oddest morning he had had since coming home, he smiled to himself. Well, he had wanted excitement, and he felt that being part of Sherlock Holmes’ world would be nothing if not exciting.

+++

At 12.30, John took his lunch hour. He pickup up his mobile and called the number on the card. It rang only once before a voice answered, “Your car is waiting, Mr. Watson,” then hung up on him. He looked blankly at the screen before collecting his jacket and walking outside. A black town car was waiting, driver holding open the door for him.

“Um, where am I going?” he asked, but the driver just looked at him and indicated he should get in. John waited for a moment, weighing the threat level in his mind, then shrugged and stepped into the car. As the door closed, he smelled expensive leather, expensive aftershave and expensive scotch. There’s a pattern here, he thought to himself.

“Doctor Watson.” The smooth voice came from inside the car, making John jump. A fussy looking man sat opposite John, his immaculate three piece suit appearing perfectly at ease within the expensive car. He was about John’s age, though his hairline was receding, and he looked as though he had just scraped something particularly nasty off the bottom of his shoe.

“Yes.” He answered cautiously.

The other man said nothing for a beat, then asked, “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” John stared at him. Of course this was about Sherlock.

“Nothing, I mean, I teach the self-defense class he’s taking.” John answered. “Why do you want to know?” he asked, and the man smiled a pitying smile.

“As part of my position, I have found it prudent to know the various people in Sherlock’s life.” He answered smoothly. “Sherlock can be,” he paused delicately as he searched for the right word, “volatile. He has determined that attending self-defense classes under your tutelage to be advantageous to him. I would be pleased to offer you a meaningful sum to offer that service to him, Doctor Watson.”

John was dumbfounded. “You want to pay me to train with Sherlock?” He asked.

The man smiled again. “A regular report as to his progress and state of mind would be part of the arrangement, naturally,” he continued.

John, who had been considering the initial offer, stopped. “No.” He refused flatly.

The man raised one eyebrow. “I haven’t even mentioned a figure.” He commented, calm but clearly put out but John’s adamant statement.

“Don’t bother. I have told Sherlock what I would tell anybody who stormed in and demanded I rearrange my life for their convenience – he is welcome at my classes, the next of which is this evening. Until that time, I am otherwise employed.” The man stared at him, and John stared right back, not giving an inch.

“Perhaps I might entice you with this piece of information, then.” The man rapped on the privacy glass with the head of his umbrella, clearly a signal to the driver.

“Sherlock is my brother. His mind is a fragile instrument that requires constant maintenance in order to ensure it does not self-destruct. For the last few years he has been more stable than I have seen in a long time – the puzzles that Detective Inspector Lestrade has consented to him examining have kept his mind relatively calm and allowed him a measure of peace and relief. Unfortunately, a lack of sufficiently challenging puzzles has compelled his mind into overdrive; I fear that he will once again turn to chemical methods of ‘quieting the noise’ as he terms it.” The man sighed, though it lacked any real regret, John felt. He was shocked, and yet it brought clarity to the earlier scene in his office. “Unlikely as it seems, Sherlock believes he has found another alternative to deal with the noise in his mind – the study of self-defense under your instruction, Doctor Watson.” John nodded slowly, understanding. The car drifted to a stop, and the driver opened the door for John to exit. The man spoke once more. “I implore you, Doctor Watson, do whatever is in your power to aid my brother.”

“Of course.” John answered automatically, climbing out of the car to find they were back in front of the medical clinic. He stood in a daze, the car behind him gliding away, and it wasn’t until his stomach rumbled that he realised he had not eaten lunch. Nor did he know the man in the car’s name.


	7. Shichi/Ilgup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock begins to see how intriguing John Watson can be.

John’s unsatisfying lunch turned out to be an apple and a protein bar, emergency food he kept for when the walk-in’s prevented his lunch hour at all. He went through the motions of treating his patients this afternoon, but one part of his brain was always working on the Sherlock Thing. The man had seemed manic this morning, but he was almost hypnotic in his mania, John had to admit. Attractive, in that John wanted to follow him around, be where he was to continue to marvel at him in person. John knew that he couldn’t be that way all the time, and he was now curious what fell in between. He had seen the mania of this morning, and he had seen the quiet, almost withdrawn focus of the class a few days ago, but what has he like on an average day? Making tea, reading a book, getting in some shopping? He mused on several scenarios until he absently asked a seventy year old lady if she was using birth control. John had to shake his head and give himself a stern talking to at that point. He needed to concentrate on the work at hand, not on Sherlock Holmes. Whom he would see tonight. Maybe.

At 5pm, John bolted out of the medical clinic. Fridays were always tight, as it was an almost twenty minute tube ride to the Community Centre. If he caught the 5.07, it gave him just enough time at the other end to get changed and set out the matting before his students arrived. After making his train, John found himself wondering about Sherlock again. Would he be there tonight, John wondered? He didn’t have to wonder long, as Sherlock was waiting for him when he arrived at the Community Centre. He looked more in control, John noticed thankfully. Still alert but not so edgy.

“Hi,” John greeted him, and Sherlock fell in step as they walked into the dojang. Sherlock moved ahead as John stopped to bow as he entered, a ritual to greet the space and show his respect for all who trained within. He could feel Sherlock observing him, curious but silent.

“How are you feeling?” John asked as he put his bag down and started drawing his gi out. He looked up and Sherlock was frowning at him.

“Why would you ask that?” Sherlock replied, looking suspicious.

John shrugged. “You seemed quite upset this morning, but you look calmer now.” John answered.

Sherlock peered at him again, and John felt like he was being assessed, just like the class earlier in the week. “You spoke to Mycroft.” Sherlock stated. He looked both disgusted and fearful, John thought.

“Who is…is that your brother’s name?” John realised.

Sherlock nodded, glancing sideways at John. “What did he say?” Sherlock asked, and the fear was still in his voice a little.

John deliberately kept his tone light. “Not much. Pretty much the same as you did, though with more dramatic flair. He’s not all that subtle, your brother.” John noted, and he was delighted to see Sherlock visibly relax, even grin.

“Subtlety is not one of Mycroft’s strongest points,” he agreed.

John took the opportunity to say quietly, “I did think about what you said, about this process quieting your mind.” He stopped to see how Sherlock accepted this overture. He looked apprehensive but calm, so John pressed on. “I’m not going to completely rearrange my life to provide private lessons whenever you want them, but this is what I can offer: you may come to any of the classes I run. If you come and train, and at the end of the class your mind needs more, we can run a private session afterwards.” John stopped and took a deep breath. He looked at Sherlock, who was not meeting his gaze. His face was shut down and John couldn’t read it.

“What do you think?” John said. He had been empathetic when both brothers had explained Sherlock’s behaviour. He had known men in Afghanistan who suffered similarly – trained for action, picked for the ability and willingness to undergo hard work, and left to sit around while politics and strategy paid out. The energy and anxiety spilled out into physical symptoms and it was only the expenditure of that energy that kept the men from going crazy. It was the same with Sherlock’s mind, he recognized – built to work, it would overrun itself if left idle. This was the balance between what he could realistically offer and what Sherlock thought he needed, which was not something to which John could commit.

Sherlock nodded slowly, then said, “That is very generous, Doctor Watson. Thank you.”

A wave of relief overcame John, and he grinned. “It’s John, actually. Or Sensei, or sah beom nim – whichever language you prefer.”

Sherlock grinned a little back. “So Sensei is Japanese for John?” he asked, mock seriously.

“Other way around,” John told him, straight faced. They broke into matching grin, all tension from their previous conversation gone.

“I can see you brought your gi, why don’t you get changed.” John suggested, picking up his own gi. “Class starts in five minutes.” As he spoke, two men entered the room, bowing at the doorway. John greeted them, then moved past to the men’s room to change before the start of the class.

Sherlock picked up his own gi. He had come dressed in the same t-shirt and track pants as he had worn Wednesday; truth be told, they were the only suitable clothes he owned for such an activity. It did mean that he was able to put on his gi in the dojang, though the belt was a challenge. He elected to wait, instead standing by the wall and watching the other students arrive. He could not believe the change in himself just since that short conversation with John this evening. Already he felt calmer, like a buzz of energy had been stripped away, leaving him alert but not anxious. The conversation this morning had not counted, they were both too stressed about the situation in general, his request of John specifically. He knew it was an outrageous demand, but he had awoken on Friday after only a few hours dozing, his head buzzing like a swarm of bees had moved in. It was five days and eight hours until the next class, and he certainly could not wait that long. The only logical thing to do was to make another class happen. John had been alarmed at his entrance, and Sherlock had braced himself to be thrown out. To his complete surprise, however, John had talked to him, asked what was wrong. He seemed to look past the abrasive, rude behaviour to try and see the root of the problem. He was a natural born healer, that much was clear, and his offer to help Sherlock had been a perfect blend of his healing instinct and his no nonsense outlook. He wouldn’t accept the petty behaviours or rudeness others seemed to expect of him, Sherlock could tell, and yet he had no desire to submit John to such things. John didn’t dismiss him as the freak, or the annoyingly sentimental little brother, he looked for the person, and seemed to be interested in what he saw. Sherlock had no idea what he had done to deserve such consideration, but in light of what John could do to calm his head, he planned on continuing for as long as possible.

Breaking into his musings, one of the other students came over to Sherlock, smiling. “I’m Jacqui,” she introduced herself. “Do you need help with your belt?” Sherlock nodded, and to his surprise, she untied her own and showed him slowly how to tie his own. He had not paid attention on Wednesday, preoccupied as he had been with John, but he stored the process away this time.

“Thank you. My name is Sherlock.” He said to Jacqui, and she giggled. Just as Sherlock was going to ask her if she was flirting, and why, as her husband would surely disapprove, John re-entered the dojang. Other students had placed matting over half of the floor, clearly used to setting up the space when John was running late. There were a dozen students, including Sherlock and Jacqui, each with a coloured belt. John clapped his hands twice, and they lined up along the edges of the mat, in order from what Sherlock assumed was the most senior, a man with a black belt, down through the colours to Jacqui, wearing a white belt. Sherlock joined the end of the row, as the beginner. Each bowed as they stepped onto the mat, then knelt. Sherlock mimicked the attitude of the others – sitting on folded knees, hands flat on his thighs, waiting for instruction. John sat similarly on the other side of the mat, a small statue and Japanese flag positioned on the table behind him. The man with the black belt spoke, and Sherlock copied the other members, placing his hands then his forehead to the floor before returning to the resting position.

“Shoman ni rei!” They all bowed towards the statue and flag, including John.

“Sensei ni rei!” They bowed to John, who bowed in return.

“Otagai ni rei!” The senior class member bowed to the rest of the students, who bowed in return.

“Okay,” John said, standing up. The other students also stood, moving to collect around John in a loose circle.

“This is Sherlock, he’s going to be joining us tonight. This is just his second lesson, so be gentle.” They laughed and a couple waved to Sherlock, who smiled awkwardly around the group. All this interacting with other people was getting tiresome, when he just wanted to work with John, to concentrate on his voice. John had continued to speak, and Sherlock automatically zeroed in on his voice.

“So we’ll go though grading material tonight, for those who are looking at grading next week.” John was saying. Several people raised their hand at this. “Tom’s going to work through a warm up, then the katame waza for each of your grading levels.” They nodded then moved away with the other black belt, clearly Tom. That left Sherlock, Jacqui and two other women, both of whom wore red belts to Sherlock and Jacqui’s white. John smiled at them all, and Sherlock clearly noted the broad smiles all three returned to John. He felt an irrational swell of jealously, which he quashed almost immediately. He forced himself to concentrate.

“…poomse.” John was saying. He turned to Sherlock, explaining, “Poomse is the technical form work of Tae Kwon Do. It sounds like something you’d find interesting. Some of it is quite complex, and focus is key to doing it well.” Both the red belted women nodded studiously.

Their group moved to the back of the room, where there were no mats. John lead a warm up, and Sherlock concentrated on the smoothness of his voice as he stretched out his muscles, still a little stiff after their use on Wednesday. Finally warm, they spread out across the space, and John explained to Sherlock and Jacqui,

“Sarah and Hailey are just starting to work on Poomse Koryo, which is the first form required for black belt. It’s a long way beyond where you are at the moment, but it’s a good practice to see how far you have to go. I’ll go through the whole sequence first, and then we can begin with the first line of movements.”

He stepped out in front of the group, and Sherlock’s attention sharpened. As John brought his feet together, his shoulders dropped and his body seemed to relax and sharpen at the same time. He exhaled audibly, stepping out with his left foot, bringing his open hands up and then forward, as though shaping a triangle at arms’ length, in front of his face. For a long moment, he stood still, as though waiting for a cue. His first movement was crisp, and Sherlock felt a thrill run down him as he watched John move through the formwork. His body was confident and his movements sharp. Sherlock was impressed at the control he exhibited – his balance didn’t waver at all, even with some of the awkward looking poses with which he was working. His focus was absolute, his breath working with his body, energy moving in waves around him as though part of the sequence itself. When John shouted a loud, “kihup!” toward the end, Sherlock jumped. He wasn’t expecting the noise, condensed and powerful. A giggle escaped from Jacqui and he glanced over, irritated. She mouthed, “sorry!” and he turned back to John, who was just finishing. He brought his hands back to the starting position and exhaled again, holding it for a beat before relaxing out of the moment. Sherlock released his own breath, not realising how involved he had been in the performance. It was captivating, and he yearned to see more.

“Okay,” John said, grinning, and Sherlock could tell that the adrenaline coursing through his body was from the satisfaction of completing the poomse to his own high standards. He was determined to reach the same heights – surely it couldn’t be all that difficult.

“Let’s start with the first movements. We start with tong milki choonbi seogi.” The red belted girls nodded, assuming the starting position. Sherlock copied them, as did Jacqui. John nodded at the red belts, then came over and gently shifted Sherlock’s hands, lowering his arms, changing the shape of his hands, then moving behind him and pressing gently on his shoulders to lower them. His touch felt hot, sending little bursts of heat into Sherlock’s skin.

“Relax,” John said quietly in his ear, an effort that had exactly the opposite effect. Sherlock felt the air move across his skin where John’s breath had passed, and the very idea made his heart race and his skin prickle. He nodded, however, and John moved to correct Jacqui.

“Again.” Instructed John, and they all relaxed their bodies and arms, then raised them again to the same position, moving their feet apart as they did so. Patiently, he moved Sherlock’s hands again, smiling encouragingly, and did the same for Jacqui.

“Again. Again. Again.” They practiced this first position over and over until each could move back into that position smoothly and perfectly. The last time, John let them stand there, focusing their breathing as he moved around them, checking each element of their work.

“This is the starting position for the most important poomse. It must be strong, it must be perfect. This is where you show your examiner that you are worthy and capable of wearing a black belt, and all the responsibility that that entails. When you are practicing this poomse for yourself, it is an opportunity to centre your energy, to quiet your mind,” at this, Sherlock’s heart raced once more, “to prepare yourself for the challenge that lies ahead. Forget your aching arms, control your breathing, then go.” He paused for a moment, then clapped his hands and said “Geu-man, stop”. They all dropped their hands, relief showing in their faces.

“Now the first sequence.” John said, moving back in front of the group. For the next hour, John drilled the small group on every tiny movement in the first section of the poomse. Sherlock had watched him closely and thought it was moderately achievable in the time period. Now, after dozens and dozens of repetitions, he realised how foolish he had been. The ease with which John Watson moved through that formwork was borne of his many, many repetitions of those movements, not a solid understanding of physiology and physics. Sherlock knew the physiology and the physics, yet he could not make his body move as John’s did. Every movement he performed was scrutinized and found wanting. From the angle of his knife hand to the height of his side kick, John found fault. Emotionally, Sherlock was frustrated with himself, with his ineptitude. Intellectually, Sherlock was interested in this initial reaction. Normally when people found fault with him, he raged, or sulked, or made nasty deductions about their spouse’s infidelity. With this though, with John, it drove him to try harder. He wanted to please John, to impress him, and this was a very unusual experience for Sherlock. He filed the impressions away to be examined more fully at a later date and drew his attention back to the class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is a link to an awesome demonstration of [Poomse Koryo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTU0jnGs4G0), which John teaches during this lesson. I think John is just slightly more excellent that this guy, but then I'm a bit biased.


	8. Hachi/Yeodul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock begin to grapple with each other in more ways than one.

“Okay,” John called, “let’s finish up with some kyeo rugi and katame.” The class nodded, and once again Sherlock made a mental note to learn functional martial-arts-related Japanese and Korean before the next class. The group had moved to sit on the edge of the mat again, with the exception of John and Tom, the most senior student. They bowed to each other, then took standing ready positions, preparing to fight, Sherlock realised.

“Shi-jak!” John barked, and they both moved in, tentatively grabbing at each other, throwing punches and kicks, ducking and weaving. Sherlock was impressed with the skill and power each showed – they were clearly playing to win. With a sudden move forward, John lifted Tom bodily off the ground, spun around and threw him, following down to pin his shoulders. Both men stopped then, rising, bowing, and Tom stepped out, shaking his head good humoredly, to be replaced by the next most senior student. She and John bowed to each other before commencing to fight.

“John does this at the end of most lessons,” Jacqui whispered to Sherlock. He didn’t take his eyes off the pair, who were now grappling on the floor, but he indicated his head towards her to show he was listening.

“The winner stays, loser steps out until everyone has had a turn. John doesn’t always win, but it’s a good chance to spar with people that are more experienced than you.”

Sherlock nodded. “How do you win?” He asked quietly.

“Either pin the other person’s shoulders or make them tap out.” She replied.

“Tap out?” he asked.

“Put them in a hold they can’t get out of, where you’ve locked one of their joints or something. They’ll tap on you or on the mat to say they’re submitting.” Jacqui explained, and Sherlock nodded again. He sat up straight, watching John now with another student. It was clear that he was no longer playing at his full capacity, giving the less experienced student a change to try some techniques, encouraging and giving pointers as they went, allowing some moves to succeed then slipping out from a hold. Sherlock could see the skill he employed in traversing the line between being patronizing and giving his opponent a chance. Another example of his empathetic nature, Sherlock thought to himself. This man was fascinating, the levels of his character a tantalizing mixture of soft and hard.

He was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Jacqui’s face, red and sweaty, smiling down at him.

“John’s just pinned me, it’s your turn.” She said, and he jumped up, moving to the middle of the mats to face John. They bowed to each other, and Sherlock imitated the position he had seen the others take – fists ready, feet apart with one leg set back slightly from the other. He had no idea what he was doing, but he figured that trying something was better than nothing, so as soon as John spoke to signal the beginning, he stepped forward, reaching for John’s lapels. In a blur, John’s hand clamped down on one wrist, the other on Sherlock’s lapel, and Sherlock was spinning sideways to land on the mat. John released his lapel but maintained his grip on Sherlock’s wrist, kneeling next to him and saying quietly, “Keep moving. A moving target is much harder to pin.”

Sherlock rolled away, and then had to stop as John had his wrist. He rolled back, trying to free his wrist, hearing John’s voice saying, “Roll your wrist against the thumb, that’s the weakest point,” Sherlock complied, his wrist coming free, and he used the momentum of this to throw himself at John, his bodyweight driving John to the mat. Sherlock had no idea what to do next, and in the instant he froze, John kept moving, using Sherlock’s momentum to roll both of them again, leaving John on the top. He pressed one elbow into Sherlock’s shoulder, the opposite hand against his other shoulder, and grinned down at him.

“Pinned.” John said quietly, and Sherlock stopped thrashing around, exhausted. John rose then grasped Sherlock’s hand to help him up. They faced and bowed again, and the class clapped his effort.

“Well done Sherlock on his first katame. Let’s finish up, shall we?” The class moved back to the edges of the mat, and as they completed the ritual bowing, Sherlock’s heart was still pounding. He had found the grappling exhilarating, as that kind of thing often was, however the addition of John’s voice, guiding him through, as well as John’s touch and scent and his body had added levels of sensation that had sent Sherlock reeling. Despite this, he wanted more, more John, more data, more than data, knowledge, _understanding_. Absently, he rose with the rest of the class, exchanging small talk with Jacqui and a couple of others who had come to greet him and introduce themselves. Oddly enough, this didn’t irritate him as it often did – if these people were important to John, he could make at least a minimum of effort to be courteous. After a reasonable time he moved over to collect his drink bottle, sipping the cool liquid as he watched John speaking intently to Tom, his full concentration on the other man as he spoke. The rest of the class slowly drifted away, Jacqui offering a cheery, “See you, Sherlock!”, and soon John’s conversation with Tom ended, the latter throwing on a jacket, offering Sherlock a nod and jogging out, clearly in a hurry to get somewhere.

John turned to Sherlock, his own drink bottle in hand, and walked around the matting to stand by the taller man.

“So, how was your first class?” He asked, his eyes warm as he drank.

“I enjoyed it very much.” Sherlock answered. He was hesitant to say any more, so he waited for John to speak again. He seemed happy to allow the silence to stretch on, and Sherlock recalled thinking that he was a very patient man when he wanted to be. “I do have a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock blurted finally, and he looked at John, who was watching him with an amused expression on his face.

“Of course,” John answered, placing his drink bottle down. “Was it about the poomse or the katame?”

“Both, actually.” Sherlock replied.

“Let’s start with the poomse, then we can move to the mats.” John suggested, and he and Sherlock moved to the open space behind the matting.

+++

They spent half an hour or so going over the first movements of Koryo, John answering Sherlock’s questions patiently. With the rest of the Community Centre quiet, and the room empty apart from the two of them, it was a curiously intimate time, John mused to himself. Sherlock had done well in the class. He had picked up a lot from watching the other students, and he seemed quite happy to repeat the same small sequences over and over, taking on John’s corrections, focusing his attention on the minutiae that made up the formwork of formal Tae Kwon Do. His ability to retain information really was phenomenal, John thought again, as he answered a question Sherlock had asked based on a comment he had made at the beginning of the group lesson. With practice, he could be very good, though his long limbs made this discipline more difficult, the long contours of his body accentuating the lines he created, for better or worse. There was determination in him, though, and John had a flare of hope that the mental energy he was expending on this was helping to damp the noise in his mind. He had used that phrase today without thinking, not even realising until Sherlock has twitched that it was he from whom John had heard the phrase.

“Right, let’s go over it one more time, then we can move on.” John suggested. He was standing quite close to Sherlock, as he had been for the last half hour, moving his limbs and correcting body position as Sherlock moved. “Start from tong milki choonbi seogi then move sharply to each position so I can see.” John instructed, and Sherlock nodded. He took a deep breath then moved into the first stance, hands before his face in a triangle. John nodded, then started counting in Korean.

“Hana.” Sherlock moved, holding the knife hand at exactly the angle John had shown him. It was a strange experience, having someone standing completely still in the middle of a room while you examine every angle of their body, John thought. He could feel Sherlock tensing a little every time John’s hand touched him. He was trying hard to be professional, the hand of a doctor or instructor, but it had another layer of implication somehow, and John wasn’t sure what it meant, or even if Sherlock could sense it. He stood behind Sherlock, and thought it prudent to say, “You need to turn your hips more to the front. Dwit-bal seogi is awkward but your hips change the whole angle of your torso.” Sherlock didn’t move, so John shifted closer and said, “Like this.” His hands on Sherlock’s hips, and pushed gently until they were aligned correctly. He removed his hands quickly and stepped back, putting a little more distance between them.

“Dul.” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then moved into the next position. John could see some small errors, but he decided that Sherlock could wait until next time, perhaps during the group class, for corrections. There was already a low level atmosphere between them, in this space, and John wasn’t really ready to deal with that just yet.

“Set. Net. Dausut.” He moved quickly through the rest of the sequence, correcting Sherlock’s shoulders and hands but leaving his hips, torso and feet until next time. When they had finished, John looked at the clock and realised that it was almost half seven, and he was starving.

“How’s your head?” John asked Sherlock.

He considered the question for a moment, John noticing how he stopped to examine his mind for an accurate answer. He smiled a little before saying, “Quiet, actually. Thank you.” John smiled, genuinely pleased that this was the case.

“If you don’t mind, I haven’t eaten since my quite disappointing lunch. Do you think we could leave the katame waza until the next time?” John asked, and Sherlock agreed immediately.

“I know a great place on Northumberland Street.” Sherlock said as they packed up the mats and changed out of their gis. John looked surprised, then a little wary. “Consider it a thank you.” Sherlock offered, then added, “besides, I suspect your lunch was cut short by my charming brother, so I think the Holmes’ owe you a meal.” John relaxed and laughed at this.

“Let’s get a taxi, then.” John said, and they moved out of the dojang together, bowing in tandem at the doorway.


	9. Ku/A-hop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tight shirt plus a comfy jumper plus a candle for the table...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EllieSaxon, the conversation after dinner is for you ;)

The cab ride was quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts. John was trying to figure out what the atmosphere had been about in the dojang – it had dissipated now, though Sherlock seemed wrapped in his own thoughts. If he didn’t know better, he might think it was physical attraction, or even more – he had already acknowledged that he was attracted to Sherlock, though at the time he had determined that it was a platonic attraction, drawing him into this fascinating being. Spending a good hour critically analyzing Sherlock’s body, however benign it was on the surface, had made John very aware of the presence of Sherlock in the seat next to him. The baggy, padded gi had not been revealing, exactly, but the hidden lines of his torso and hips had been teasing rather than unexciting. John shook his head, shaking it out. This was a man who needed his help, who was interested in learning about the art that John had spent most of his life studying. John could offer support, guidance, even friendship, but nothing more. He could not take advantage of the position of trust in which this man, and his brother, actually, had placed him.

Turning back to Sherlock, John realised the cab was slowing to a stop. “Are we here?” He asked, confusedly. They seemed to be on a residential street near Regents Park. Sherlock jumped out, asking the cabbie to keep the meter running, then bounded up to a door as John followed, toting his large gym bag.

“I need to get dressed if we are going out to dinner, John.” Sherlock declared, mounting the stairs two at a time. John followed him into the flat. Sherlock disappeared around a corner, then poked his head back to say, “Three minutes. There’s another bedroom upstairs if you want to get dressed, too.” He vanished again, leaving John to ogle the sheer volume of things in the flats’ little sitting room. Piles of papers and books, a skull, an unframed portrait of a man; it seemed as though Sherlock had no organizational process at all. John peered around the corner into the kitchen, though it looked more like a laboratory than a kitchen. Every surface was covered with petri dishes, a microscope, containers holding what looked suspiciously like human body parts… John didn’t want to know, he decided, then turned and made his way up to the top bedroom to change into his work pants and jumper.

Sherlock was ready before him, and an impatient, “Come on, John!” rose up the stairs as John was lacing his shoes. He hurriedly stuffed his gi and belt into his bag before clattering down two flights of stairs to meet Sherlock in the entranceway. The well cut suit and dark, open necked shirt that Sherlock was wearing made him look like a model, John thought vaguely as he followed Sherlock back into the cab. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from how the suit seemed to fit and accentuate his long body, the shirt just about threatening to burst a button or four right there in the cab.

“Nice jumper.” Sherlock commented, and John’s eyes flew up to meet Sherlock’s amused ones. He flushed, knowing he had been caught staring.

“Nice suit.” He replied.

Sherlock said wryly, “This old thing?” They both chuckled.

Sherlock asked, “I assume you have questions.” John nodded, and it was Sherlock’s turn to wait out the silence.

“Did I see human body parts in your kitchen?” John had no idea that was what he was going to say until it came out of his mouth.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered.

John looked at him as though to say, “and?”

Sherlock sighed. “I am a consulting detective for Scotland Yard. They, or Lestrade, at least, call me in when they are out of their depth, which is always. I am friends with one of the Medical Examiners. Molly allows me to take some body parts to conduct my experiments.”

John nodded slowly at this, then remarked, “Remind me to never eat in your kitchen.” They both chuckled, and John went on, “How did you get that job, then?”

Sherlock cocked one eyebrow at him. “Remember what I told you the other night about your injuries and your family?” he asked.

John shifted in his seat, saying, “Yes, how did you know?”

Sherlock shrugged, a smug smile on his face. “The way you greeted Anderson and asked about his wrist was professional all over, so you’re clearly medically trained. Your left shoulder is marginally weaker than your right, you load your right arm when doing push-ups and roll your shoulder to ease the stiffness on a regular basis. Your shoulder, left knee and right elbow smell like an eastern warming oil, indicating they are old injuries and you seek Eastern medicine to ease the pain and stiffness. As your shoulder is also strapped, you seek more attention for that joint than the others. You wear a man’s ring on your right hand, so not your wedding band. It’s old, probably a relative, most likely a father who has passed away, this is your inheritance as the eldest son. You’re not well off, so no major monetary inheritance, it’s likely your mother is still alive, your accent points to the north of England and it’s statistically likely she lives in the family home. You’re a busy doctor with a martial arts’ practice, it’s unlikely you have the time or energy to call your mother, who probably laments her lack of grandchildren, but you love her and certainly fulfil the duty of seeing her on birthdays and Christmas. Flowers and chocolates are standard “I love you but I have no idea what to buy you” presents for female relatives.”

Sherlock stopped and looked at John calmly. “That’s why they ask me to come to crime scenes. I observe and deduce, far better than anybody else can.”  Just as John opened his mouth to speak again, the cab stopped for a second time. Sherlock jumped out, and John could see that this time they were at a small restaurant, the name ‘Angelo’s’ on the front window.

They entered the busy restaurant, and Sherlock greeted the owner, who seemed delighted to see him. They were seated immediately at a small table, Angelo bringing a candle to the table. “It’s more romantic for your date.” He declared, winking at Sherlock, who just looked amused. John was confused. Was this a date? It kind of seemed like it was, but neither of them had mentioned anything, so…Just two mates, having dinner, he thought. Nothing more.

Sherlock asked him about his martial arts training then, and they fell into conversation comparing the merits of Japanese versus Korean based martial art forms. Sherlock seemed quite well versed on the history of each, a fact that would surprise John about anybody else, but Sherlock seemed the kind of person who would know a lot about just about anything.

+++

Sherlock hoped that his research this afternoon into both Japanese and Korean martial arts wasn’t too much. He had thought that perhaps John would want to eat after their class this evening, and had almost panicked at the idea of having nothing to talk about. As it turned out, the conversation flowed quite easily. They drank a glass of wine each and to his own surprise, Sherlock ate alongside John. The lesson this evening had been physically draining, and the peace that now blanketed his mind allowed him to concentrate on the food while he listened to the quiet tones of John’s voice. Their time together this evening had been surprisingly emotionally intense, though Sherlock had no idea what to make of it. There had been a little something, something opaque and expectant and tempting. Sherlock had been glad that John asked to skip the grappling – just the touch of John’s hands on his hips had made Sherlock’s heart race, and he didn’t know how he would have managed to engage in a more physical lesson. Sherlock felt surer of himself now that he was dressed in his suit again, his usual attire giving him confidence. He was appalled at the jumper John was wearing, but the soft wool did seem to suit him, and he was clearly comfortable in it. Probably a gift, Sherlock noted absently. John had been impressed by his deduction in the cab too, and now they were talking like regular people over dinner.

“So do you make these sweeping deductions about everybody?” John asked out of the blue, after their dinner plates had been cleared and they had ordered coffee.

“Sometimes.” Sherlock answered honestly, looking at John to observe his reaction.

“And most people say piss off.” John recalled, grinning.

“They do,” Sherlock agreed, “although to be fair, there is a lot of adultery out there.”

John’s eyes widened and he threw his head back and laughed with delight, which made Sherlock grin broadly in response. “No wonder.” He finally said, and Sherlock shrugged. “Sally Donovan wouldn’t have been on the end of one of these adultery deductions, would she?” John asked, putting the two things together. Sherlock was impressed that he had noticed her dislike of him, though she didn’t try to hide it.

“She’s not married,” he said, then leaned in, “But Philip Anderson is.”

John laughed again, and Sherlock notice how his whole body was involved when he did. Their coffee arrived, pausing the conversation, before John continued, “Well that explains it, then,” and Sherlock sobered a little at that. John had clearly noticed the hostility from the others in the self-defense class.

“Explains what?” Sherlock asked, deliberately obtuse. He snuck a look at John, who had his eyebrows raised in a, ‘don’t think you’re fooling me’ expression.

“Why Sally’s at the class at all.” John said, his level gaze almost daring Sherlock to contradict the statement. “She’s a copper, doesn’t need to do the training. She’s either…”

“Hoping that she can create a situation in which I am physically injured, or she’s there because she thinks she’s protecting Anderson, more likely as an excuse to spend time with him, or Lestrade pointed out that it would be an advantageous career move.” Sherlock had interrupted John, unable to prevent himself explaining the motives he saw written all over Sally’s attendance at the class. John looked at him reproachingly, and Sherlock shrank a little under the gaze, regretting interrupting John and thrilling at the intensity of the gaze in equal parts.

“I wonder why she could want all of that, then?” John asked, sarcasm heavy in his tone. Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow, inviting further explanation. “Clearly you’re not the most popular person at the Yard, Sherlock.” John said as though explaining it to a child. “If they only see the manic you, the one that outs their secrets and bounces around like you did this morning, that doesn’t surprise me.” He stopped, not sure if he had crossed a line.

“But you see more.” Sherlock made the statement with a carefully schooled face, his façade in place. He didn’t look at John, but he could feel the emotion radiating out from the shorter man.

“Yes. I do.” John said quietly, and they sat in silence with that between them for a long moment. The atmosphere was there again, Sherlock felt, and the slight tensing of John’s shoulders, coupled with the fact that he wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze, indicated that he was aware of it, too. “It’s getting late,” John said finally, “and I have a morning class tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded, not sure where they were leaving things. John stood up and dropped some cash on the table, and Sherlock automatically rose, shaking John’s outstretched hand.

“Next class is Tuesday night if you’re interested.” he said, then turned and left Sherlock at the table.

+++

Sherlock walked slowly home, the cool night air refreshing after the over-heated restaurant. He had a lot to process. Only three days ago, he had never met John Watson, had no idea that he existed, even. Now, he was calculating the hours until the next class (91 hours, 53 minutes) and wondering if he could last that long. It was a great change to be able to ponder this thought in his own time, without a thousand other thoughts and ideas crowding it out of his mind. The time he had spent with John had smoothed out the jangling nerves and allowed him to bring up one idea at a time, to examine it fully, then move onto the next without descending into chaos in his mind palace. Even this sacred space had been faulty lately, unwanted images and people moving through the hallways without his permission. But now, now he felt calm, an adjective not often applicable to Sherlock Holmes. He planned on going home and creating a room, or possibly a whole new wing, to catalogue everything he knew and had deduced about John Watson. With any luck, this would take him through the next 91 hours 49 minutes until he and John saw each other again.


	10. Ju/Yeol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John gets his BAMF on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself, TheStarlingsRedstart, this BAMF is for you (best sit down before reading).

John was surprised at how disappointed he was at Sherlock’s absence on Tuesday night. After his enthusiasm on Friday, he had felt certain that Sherlock would be at class on Tuesday, ready to go. John’s weekend had been exhausting, as he ran extra hours for the students that would grade in a few weeks, plus his regular junior classes. Monday was his usual day off, and he wondered if Sherlock would track him down at home, but it had been a quiet day, just a trip to Tesco for some shopping and a chance to read the medical journals that had been piling up on his side table.

When Sherlock didn’t come to Tuesday’s class, John had been tempted to call Sherlock, to see how he was doing. It was silly, he told himself, to be worried about a grown man; but Sherlock had asked for his help, and particularly in light of Friday’s two classes and then dinner, he had felt that they had forged the beginnings of a friendship. After their conversation, John had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock may have done a little research on martial arts (seriously, nobody could just know that much about something so obscure!), but he was flattered rather than anything. He had the distinct impression that people were rarely flattered by anything Sherlock did, and he was determined to show Sherlock some positive response to his efforts. Looking past his obvious impatience with people in general, and his ability to completely ignore social cues, John saw a brilliant, funny man who craved any kind of positive interaction, using his insight to wound those who sneered at him. In the end, though, John decided to wait until Wednesday, rather than push Sherlock. If he needed to come to class, he would. In a way it was good that he hadn’t come – it meant that his head was clear. John tried to be glad about that, ignoring the slightly hurt pride that was hoping Sherlock would come to see him, regardless of the state of his mind.

+++

“Hello, John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded behind John, as he finished dragging the mats out for Wednesdays’ class. John’s smile was broad and genuine, Sherlock felt, as he turned to see Sherlock standing a couple of meters away.

“Hi, Sherlock.” John replied, standing on the last piece of the matting to lock it into place. They had a few more minutes, Sherlock knew, before the rest of the class arrived, and he had timed his arrival deliberately to have these few moments to talk with John. It had been too long, even with the case, and he let the awareness of being near John wash over him again, enjoying the sensation, allowing it to calm his mind in a more complete way than the puzzles.

“How was your week?” John asked casually, and Sherlock felt a pull of an unfamiliar, awkward emotion - guilt. He should have called John, explained why he had not come to class yesterday; he had vacillated so long that in the end it had been easier to just wait until class.

“We had a case.” Sherlock started, and then stopped. John nodded, and Sherlock could see the confusion still behind the apparent understanding. He tried again.

“When there’s a case, it takes all my concentration, all my focus,” Sherlock tried to describe the effect that having a case had on him, on the loss of his peripheral awareness. He couldn’t tell if John understood or not, although he did say, “I understand.” Frustrated, Sherlock smiled tightly and turned to put down his bag, pulling his gi out and turning to replace his coat and scarf with the heavy jacket and belt. When he turned back, John indicated his perfectly tied belt and gave him an approving smile. Sherlock returned the smile, feeling the anxiety from his awkward gaffe lift. John was not angry; he may not understand Sherlock, but he would not punish Sherlock for it. Sherlock felt an urge to move closer to John, to touch him, even, but he pushed it away, shaking it off. They held their smiles and their gaze for a beat, then the sound of the other students entering tore John’s gaze away, and the lesson began.

+++

It had gone well, John felt, after a fairly rocky start. He had split the group into two rows, facing each other. They would rotate around, working with each other person in the group, including John. Anderson and Sherlock were paired up, but the second that Sherlock touched him, Anderson had dramatically clutch at his wrist, claiming Sherlock had deliberately re-injured him.

“You did that on purpose!” Sally accused Sherlock, moving protectively between Sherlock and Anderson, who was clutching his wrist and almost cowering behind Sally.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the theatrics. “For goodness sake, Donovan,” he spat, contempt all over his face, “Not only did I barely touch him, it was the other wrist I grabbed!”

Sally’s face was angry, and she almost shouted, “It’s your fault he’s injured anyway, freak, spouting all your theories and then leaving us to take the fallout!”

“Oh, take your histrionics somewhere else, Donovan, nobody needs to see such a display here. You’ll just embarrass yourself.” Sherlock retorted.

“Alright, break it up, you two,” Lestrade jumped in, “Let’s just get John to-”

But Sally cut him off, pointing at Sherlock and declaring, “He’s dangerous, I’m not working with him!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, muttering, “I’m not sure Anderson is worthy of such loyalty, since he’s cheating on his wife with you, Donovan.” Sally’s outrage seemed to build again, and she started shouting at him, Lestrade jumping in and Sherlock turning away in disgust, though he threw a few retorts her way that had her absolutely livid. As the voices escalated, John knew he needed to do something.

Putting two fingers in his mouth, he took a deep breath and blew hard. A piercing whistle cut across the noise, causing the group to freeze. John looked at each person, a hard, cold gaze directed in turn at each of Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade and Sherlock.

“Line. Up.” He said, in a cold, almost dangerous voice. He was not shouting, or even speaking loudly, yet the sound carried around the dojang. The other techs scrambled to comply, and Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade and Sherlock moved too, Lestrade glaring daggers at them all, Donovan and Anderson sticking protectively together.

“Come to attention!” John barked, sounding for all the world like he was running the first day of basic training. They stood at attention, eyes following John, which was close enough, considering the circumstances. He kept them standing there for a long few moments, pacing slowly up and down the line, allowing their heartbeats to slow, and their anger to drain away to be replaced by apprehension as they wondered how he would deal with the situation.

“Let me remind you,” John started, in the same quiet voice he had used earlier, “That all of you are here voluntarily. You may chose to leave at any time. There are consequences if you do, but nobody is holding a gun to your head.” He managed to make that sound like a threat, and one of the techs actually shivered. “Some of you are here more voluntarily than others, in fact,” he looked pointedly at Donovan, who swallowed visibly, and then at Sherlock, who did not move a muscle at the scrutiny. “I will not tolerate such behaviour in this dojang again. Anybody who brings such negativity into this space will not be invited back.” His voice turned even steelier, and he continued, “No discussion, no second chances,” he shouted all of a sudden, “NO EXCEPTIONS!” His voice then dropped back as it was, as he said, “Be grateful that we are even having this conversation, because if any of my regular students had shown such blatant disrespect to this space, to what we do,” his voice suddenly rose again, and he almost shouted, “to ME!” and paused, letting the sound hang in the air, before continuing calmly as before, “they would be gone already.” John stopped pacing now, facing the line from the centre. He looked at each person in turn, allowing the silence to spin out as he examined each face. He allowed the fury to colour his face, so they could see the emotion behind the control he was exhibiting, his eyes hard.

“Whatever your issues outside of this dojang,” he said, in a quiet voice designed to make people listen intently, “leave them at the door.” He looked at Anderson as he said, “If anyone thinks they are injured, stop working and tell me.” He looked severely at Donovan and Sherlock, then Lestrade. “Injuries happen, and blaming anybody is not acceptable. Neither is any kind of slur or offensive language.” Sally had the good grace to look abashed, John noticed, as did Sherlock. Lestrade was exasperated, he could see. John looked around again at everybody. “Consider yourself warned. Anybody who treats another student with such disrespect again will fail this course and be asked to leave.” There was dead silence at this, and John let it stretch out to an uncomfortable length before he spoke again.

“Let’s take a drink while I look at Philip’s wrist, then we can begin again.” John instructed, and the group immediately dispersed, Sherlock to his things, the rest of the group to the other side of the room. Lestrade was doing his thing as the boss, John could see, speaking severely to Donovan, and then Sherlock, reiterating John’s warning about their behaviour. Anderson’s wrist was fine, and John suggested that the strapping could come off as soon as the next day.

The rest of the class went smoothly, if a little quietly. The group was subdued, everybody concentrating on the tasks John was setting, wary of his mood. They had remembered most of the sequences he had taught them last week, although only Sherlock had made the effort to come to any classes outside of this one. John moved on to some new scenarios, using Sherlock as his partner as he was most confident in his ability to move reliably and fall safely. It proved a good choice, the pair of them working well together. John made a point to have his professional demenor on, barely looking at Sherlock as he explained and demonstrated two methods of breaking the hold of someone who grabbed at your shoulder from behind. He didn’t know if Sherlock was upset at his method of dealing with the incident earlier. John knew that Sherlock hadn’t initiated the argument, but he had to deal with everyone the same or nobody would work together effectively again. It was easier at the moment to focus on the class. He could speak to Sherlock about it later. They broke once again into pairs, John sitting out and allowing Anderson, Donovan and Lestrade to work as a team so he could watch each student working, giving them feedback as they went.

Soon, their time was over. John had the group sit along the edge of the matting and complete a formal end to the class, as they had done on Friday night. He asked Sherlock to sit in the senior position and he felt both Anderson and Donovan bristle at this perceived favouritism.

“Sherlock is the only one of you who came to an extra lesson this week, so he has more experience than any of you. He also knows the Japanese he’ll need to say, unless anyone else can do it?” He looked pointedly at Anderson and Donovan, both of whom shook their heads contritely. John indicated Sherlock to move to the right hand place, saying in an undertone,

“You do remember the Japanese, right?” Sherlock looked at him with an, ‘of course, John’ expression, and John replied, “Just checking.”

They readied themselves, the other students taking their cue from Sherlock.

“Shoman ni rei!” They all bowed towards the statue and flag, including John.

“Sensei ni rei!” They bowed to John, who bowed in return.

“Otagai ni rei!” Sherlock bowed to the rest of the students, who bowed in return.

“Thank you. I will see you next week, if not earlier.” John said, dismissing the class. He felt drained after the dramatic start to the lesson. John rarely had to pull out his Army training, but it certainly came in handy when tempers overran, as they sometimes could. With any luck, next week would be smoother. Lestrade would probably knock a few heads together to make sure it did, actually.

“Sorry about all that,” Lestrade said, coming up to speak to John as he replaced the jacket of his gi with his street jacket.

“Not your fault,” John said, then hesitated. “I don’t want to step on your toes, Greg, but…” he trailed off, hoping Greg would understand what he was trying to say.

“Yeah, okay. You’re the boss here, I’m the boss out there.” Greg agreed, his wry smile meeting John’s relieved one.

“Thanks. I guess I can hold their jobs at ransom, but it will be easier if I can just…” John trailed off again, Greg nodding his understanding.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t give them a talking to tomorrow, mind.” Greg said, then shook John’s hand and walked out. John grinned, glad there were no hard feelings. He liked Greg, might even see if he wanted to meet at the pub for a match and pint sometime. He could do with a new perspective on Sherlock. Greg didn’t have the same dislike of Sherlock as the others, especially Donovan and Anderson, and he certainly knew a different side than John was getting to know. Could be interesting.

As he mused on this, he noticed that Sherlock was the last remaining student, again. He was picking up the matting, stacking the pieces in a pile. He had changed back into his street clothes, and John was both relieved and disappointed not to have a private lesson after that demanding class.

“Thanks,” John said, snapping out of his reverie to come and help Sherlock. They made short work of the small task before collecting their things and walking out together.

“Look, Sherlock,” John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

“It’s fine,” he said, and John stopped, turning to face Sherlock.

“How do you know…” he asked.

Sherlock grinned that infuriating, smug grin that John was getting to know. “You want to explain that you had to reprimand me along with the others in class or it would have looked like favoritism. It’s fine. You were right, I should have ignored Donovan. She had a delightful knack for behaving in a way to provoke me, however my actions are my own responsibility. It was not respectful of you or the dojang and it won’t happen again.”

John blinked at Sherlock, then grinned. “You know,” he said, conversationally, “I can see how people might find that a bit annoying but really, I still think it’s brilliant.” Sherlock smiled in return, and they stopped as they reached the corner of the street.

“See you Friday?” Sherlock said casually.

“Friday.” John confirmed, “All-encompassing cases notwithstanding.” They grinned knowingly at each other once again, and then stood for a moment, before John turned to walk away. Sherlock tucked his hands into his coat, not even bothering to signal to the CCTV cameras. Mycroft was certainly watching, and a car would be no more than a minute away.


	11. Ju ichi/Yeol hana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock's choice leads to action, and John's to inaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!
> 
> I'm sneaking in this huge chapter before I disappear for a late evening Christmas Eve service. I am very grateful for this wonderful community I've discovered and the confidence it has given me to share my work.
> 
> I appreciate each and every comment and all the kudos you're gifting me too!
> 
> See you after New Years', or possibly sooner if I can manage some internet access.
> 
> xxx

Friday the 13th being as it was, Sherlock was not surprised that Lestrade caught a case late in the afternoon. He _was_ surprised to realise he was annoyed at the case. Irritated at the idea of going to the scene, observing, dealing with Anderson and Donovan, especially after Wednesday’s class. Examining this emotion, he decided he was disappointed to be missing the class with John. He wanted to go to the dojang, to train with John, to have his scent surround him, wash over and smooth his mind. This dilemma made him pause for a long moment, torn between the puzzles and the training. The focus on the lines of his body, excluding everything but the sound of his voice, the timbre of it grounding him and soothing his mind. No, no, it’s not the training. It’s John. John? Surely, he meant the training, it was the association of the two within his mind palace.

Without another thought, Sherlock whipped out his phone and sent a text. Relief spread through him, and he smiled to himself. 

It was the right decision, Sherlock knew as soon as he entered the dojang. The sense of the space, the feel of his gi and belt as he dressed. Whether it was the training or the John, the calmness began to creep over him as he tied his belt. Others entered the room and he nodded to them, though he didn’t speak, still keeping to himself. At 5.29, John raced in, bowing perfunctorily and apologizing for his tardiness. Some good natured ribbing, and John threw a quick smile at Sherlock while he pulled out the pieces of his gi then raced to change. Sherlock set up the shoman - the statue and flag - while others pulled out the matting in preparation for the lesson. Without discussion, the students lined up, waiting patiently for John. Sherlock felt far less patient than he probably looked. The dojang without John was odd place, Sherlock realised. It lacked a certain ambiance, a soothing presence that John brought, he mused. John’s temperament was naturally calm, but he had iron control underneath, and the ability to exhibit control over people without alienating them. Sherlock was impatient for him to return and right the balance in the room. Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock sensed John enter the room. The soft footfalls were an obvious clue, but Sherlock was certain he felt the atmosphere change, or perhaps it was a low level of his own anxiety that had lifted. Either way, he sat straighter and felt ready for the class to begin.

+++

They spent most of the lesson working on basic Tae Kwon Do techniques. Sherlock was sweating profusely by the end, having pushed his body and mind hard. The terminology was swirling though his head, images of techniques coming to the surface with each ji-rugi or cha-gi. He’d never gotten around to researching the Korean and Japanese, but each new term was building his functional vocabulary. He found it less distracting than he would have thought, though arranging it in his mind palace would be beneficial. Drinking from his water bottle, he took a moment to lock the new terms and images into a new, John-adjacent room in his mind palace, to be tidied away at a later date. This allowed the peace gained from the class to sweep through him, and he reveled in it again. Opening his eyes, he came back to the room, then joined the group, relaxing into the increasingly familiar pose.

“Shoman ni rei!”

“Sensei ni rei!”

“Otagai ni rei!”

Sherlock sat back on his heels for a moment as the rest of the group rose and started chattering as they moved away. He watched John sitting in the same attitude, and their eyes met. They had barely spoken during the class, occupied as John had been with the group as a whole, and Sherlock had been content just to be in proximity. This moment, though, where John was acknowledging his presence, and appearing pleased by it, was a like a beam of light in the dark, a private moment in this decidedly un-private place. The warmth of it was heartening and Sherlock basked in it, it’s balm healing the aches already forming from the challenging class. Only a moment passed before John stood up to farewell the other students. Although they had not spoken specifically about it, Sherlock assumed (and hoped, if he was honest), that there would be a chance for him to work with John again, as they had done last week. He was unsure, unsettlingly so, and hovered awkwardly as John saw out the last of the other students.

“We need to get you the rest of that gi, Sherlock,” John said as he walked back from the doorway.

Sherlock frowned. “The pants, Sherlock.” He explained, and Sherlock realised. “You probably should have a dobok, too,” John mused, and opened a cupboard filled with uniforms. He took out the corresponding pants to Sherlock’s gi – they were also padded at the knees, and quite heavy. In contrast was the second uniform John removed from the shelf. It was a V necked, long sleeved top, much lighter than the gi, and the corresponding pants were in the same lighter material.

“You only need one belt at the moment,” John explained, piling the fabric into Sherlock’s arms. “We generally focus on grappling and jiu jitsu one week, Tae Kwon Do the next,” he continued, “That’s why you were so hot today,” he indicated the heavy gi, “because you’ll need to wear a dobok for the Tae Kwon Do classes. Much lighter, better for the faster movements, kicking and things.”

The dobok was the lighter uniform, Sherlock understood. He nodded, saying, “Thank you, John.” The new uniform went away in his bag, and he turned back to John, still hesitant to bring up the extra training time. In truth, his head felt fine, especially as he would likely come to Tuesday’s lesson (96 hours 17 minutes away), and there was at least one case on Lestrade’s desk that may warrant his attention. He felt greedy, though - he wanted John’s undivided attention and was loathed to give up an opportunity when it arose.

“Was there something in particular you wanted to work on tonight, Sherlock?” John clearly assumed they would work together now, a fact that both buoyed Sherlock and made him irrationally nervous. Ridiculous sentiment, he berated himself, concentrating on saying,

“I would like to examine some of the grappling techniques I observed last week, if you wouldn’t mind.” John nodded, and Sherlock saw him swallow before he looked back at Sherlock.

“Of course. Shall we?” he indicated the mat, and they bowed as they stepped onto the mat together.

Sherlock said seriously, “I tried to replicate these techniques in my mind palace, however it is not the same as having a real person on whom to practice.”

John blinked at him, then nodded, “Right.” He cleared his throat, then said, “Why don’t we start from the ground, and you can try the techniques as the opportunities arise. Let me know if you want me to do anything in particular.” Sherlock nodded and turned to sit on the ground, but John stopped him, saying seriously, “Two things. If I say stop, or tap the mat or any part of your body like this” he made a flat hand and rapped sharply with his fingers and palm on the mat, a double tap, “stop immediately and let go of any hold, choke or joint lock. Don’t drop me, though. I’ll do the same for you. If in doubt, let go. Some of the techniques we use can be dangerous, and it’s better to be safe.” He rolled his shoulder unconsciously at this, reminding Sherlock that he needed to be mindful of that weakness.

He realised that John was waiting for him to respond, and he nodded, “Yes. I understand.”

“Good.” John said, and Sherlock was struck by the air of authority John seemed to be able to draw around himself like a cloak. Though he was shorter than Sherlock, he filled Sherlock’s vision, his presence expanding as he spoke, instructed; it then deflated and John was a regular, if quietly self confident, man again.

They sat back to back, Sherlock waiting for John to say, “Hajime!” before turning. He held back, watching John, before John looked at him and said, “Try something, Sherlock. Make a clear move, grip an arm or collar, and turn.” Sherlock complied, and he and John were rolling across the mats. Sherlock could hear John giving him direction and tips, suggestions and encouragement as they worked. Apart from these comments, they were silent. John allowed Sherlock to pin him several times, holding the position for a moment before sliding out of it like an eel. A murmured, “good” several times was the only remark John made, but Sherlock felt bursts of satisfaction each time he earned this praise. Sherlock worked methodically through all the techniques he remembered from the previous week, modifying and experimenting with different grips and angles to see how they alters the efficacy of each action. John remained patient, save twice he tapped out, rolling his shoulder over before recommencing. Finally, Sherlock tapped out and sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. John’s attitude matched his, and they looked at each other for a long moment before breaking into matching grins. Sherlock had been concentrating too hard to make any observations about John, but now he was bombarded with data – his scent (deodorant, the Eastern warming oil, and sweat), the harsh sound of his breathing, the way his hair stood up all over the place after their grappling session. They bowed to each other then moved over to drink deeply from their water bottles.

“Thank you,” Sherlock offered quietly. The silence that had held almost since they started now seemed heavier, more private. It was comfortable, not an adjective Sherlock generally equated with other people, but he could tell that John was not expecting anything from him, whether social graces or platitudes, and it made him feel relaxed.

“You’re welcome. You’ve been working hard, you did well,” John replied, his voice quiet. Sherlock just nodded, his calm mind working on the mystery of this new atmosphere. He wasn’t sure what this it signified, but it seemed that both he and John generated something in each other when they were alone together. This had happened previously, when they had been the last two people here. Sherlock frowned to himself. He would need to analyse his observations of his own behaviour and physiological reactions, as well as John’s, to find out what was going on. That would have to wait, though, as he planned to draw out this evening with John as long as possible first.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked John, who replied without thinking.

“Starving.”

They moved quickly to pack up the room and change, before making their way out to the street.

John looked around at the empty street, frowning. “Tube?” He asked, then stared as Sherlock winked at him, before gesturing ‘I’m waiting’ at the CCTV camera on the pole.

“Two minutes, if Mycroft is paying attention.”

John wondered how Mycroft would be monitoring CCTV, but ninety seconds later, a dark sedan pulled up beside them. Sherlock held the door for a speechless John, and both of them slid inside.

“My brother is the British government, broadly speaking,” Sherlock announced, answering John’s unasked question.

“Should I be worried?” John asked wryly.

Sherlock smiled. “I dare say that Mycroft is only dangerous to those who underestimate him, John.” John nodded, not really knowing what Sherlock was talking about. Clearly there was some animosity between the brothers, though there did appear to be an unspoken set of rules governing their interactions. John decided to let it be, he had enough on his mind at the moment. Such as the tall, attractively disheveled man sitting across from him, as they drove to an unknown location for dinner. Together. Again. Sherlock seemed quite happy to watch the world slide by, so John indulged himself in a little self-reflection.

Though he had only ever dated women, John was self-aware enough to know that the term ‘straight’ was a box in which he did not entirely fit. He liked the term, ‘sliding scale’ to describe sexuality, and he knew he was somewhere in the middle between liking only men and liking only women. He had found men attractive in the past, but had not acted on it since his Army days, where the constraints of service sometimes meant boundaries and definitions blurred for the term of ones’ deployment. Really, if he was honest, he had never had a true connection to anybody before, male or female. And if honesty was the flavour of the day, Sherlock was stirring more emotion in him than he had felt in a long time. That in itself was not necessarily cause for angst. Sherlock was not only a student of his, but a student he knew needed the healing he could provide as an instructor. Instigating a relationship further than friendship would be taking advantage, he felt, and integrity was high on the list of personal qualities he valued in himself. The grappling tonight had been almost meditative. He and Sherlock had worked almost soundlessly, Sherlock’s concentration palpable, the energy of it having a surprisingly soothing effect on John’s mind. John had made a conscious effort to praise his successes and make suggestions and tips as they moved. Sherlock had clearly been paying close attention last week, and his retention was remarkable. He tried almost a dozen different moves, adapting quickly when he saw shortcomings, especially with the discrepancy in the length of his and John’s bodies. John made sure to keep his mind on critically evaluating Sherlock’s performance, rather than the strength in his legs, the careful way he worked with John’s joints, or the intoxicating scent of his aftershave and sweat. This had worked well until they had finished up, the barrier of the work no longer conveniently between them. John had allowed the charged atmosphere to play out as they drank. He didn’t feel it was appropriate to make romantic overtures but he didn’t want this to end either. He had the distinct impression that Sherlock was not a man who readily made connections with others; the attitudes of the others from NSY seemed to be what he expected from people. If that was how the world in general treated Sherlock, John knew that he would have to be careful, even with a friendship. Sherlock’s heart was more fragile than most, and there was no way that John Watson was going to be responsible for so much as a single blemish.

+++

With a jolt, John realised the car had stopped and Sherlock was waiting, one hand on the door handle. He smiled a quick apology for his absence and followed Sherlock out, not surprised this time to be at Baker Street. They changed clothes quickly and John fell into step as Sherlock started walking down Baker Street, a destination clearly in mind.

“Chinese?” John asked as the sign came into view.

Sherlock nodded. “I can always tell a good Chinese from the bottom third of the door handle.” He said confidently.

John just barely managed to stifle a snort of laughter. “No, you can’t.” He said, amusement in his voice at the audacity of the claim.

“Yes I can!” He declared indignantly.

John’s expression was still amused, with an overlay of determination not to pander to Sherlock’s blatant self-aggrandizement. “No, Sherlock, you can’t.” Sherlock looked a little offended, but the expression on John’s face showed Sherlock that these kind of statements would not be accepted – John was quite happy to call his bluff, though without offense given or taken. For some reason, yet again, Sherlock was interested rather than annoyed by this behaviour. Another layer uncovered, Sherlock mused as they entered and were seated. Oh John, how you intrigue me, he thought delightedly.


	12. Ju ni/Yeol dul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Text-y goodness.

_Sunday, 8.26pm_

_Any developments on the fortune cookie yet? JHW_

_I’m still not telling you what it says. SH_

_Why not? You could probably use my expertise in deciphering the cryptic nature of the message. JHW_

_Are you serious? SH_

_No. Just using as many big words as I can. JHW_

_Do you think that understanding it will increase the likelihood of it’s validity? SH_

_No. JHW_

_Then why does it matter? SH_

_John? SH_

_John? SH_

_John? SH_

_Stop it! Why does it matter to you? JHW_

_Does it make sense to you? JHW_

_Sherlock? JHW_

_See you Tuesday, then. JHW_

_It says, ‘use your instincts in this matter’. SH_

_To do what? JHW_

_Is there something you want to use your instincts in? JHW_

_Sherlock. If you don’t want to answer, tell me now so I can stop making an idiot of myself by asking. JHW_

_Yes. SH_

_Yes? JHW_

_Yes, there is something in which I want to use my instincts. SH_

_Okay. JHW_

_Do you want to talk about it? We can talk in generalities if you’d rather. JHW_

_I have no basis of experience for my current situation. SH_

_And what situation is that? JHW_

_My social interactions have been limited, and I am not sure of the correct way to proceed. SH_

_Honesty is the best policy, in my experience. JHW_

_I have calculated the possible outcomes based on a number of parameters and there is not enough data to predict with any accuracy that the results will be favorable. SH_

_What? JHW_

_I don’t know if it will work. SH_

_Well, that’s the thing when you’re dealing with other people. You don’t always have control. JHW_

_I prefer to be in control of as many variables as possible. SH_

_I know, Sherlock. JHW_

_This warrants further thought. Thank you for your perspective, John. SH_

_Night, Sherlock. See you Tuesday. JHW_

_+++_

_Sunday, 11.04pm_

_Hi, Greg, it’s John Watson. Do you want to catch the match next week? We can watch Chelsea demolish Swansea. JHW_

_Sure, better than drinking alone. Westminster Arms, 8pm? GL_

_Sounds good. See you then. JHW_

_Yeah, you can give me the secret to getting Sherlock to do what you tell him to do. GL_

_Not sure there is one, mate. JHW_

_Yeah, right. GL_

_You know him better than me, you can give me pointers, I think. JHW_

_Pointers about what, exactly? GL_

_Buy the first round and we’ll talk on Saturday. JHW_

_Right. GL_


	13. Ju san/Yeol set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randori as stress relief. Sounds solid to me.

Tuesday afternoon passed in a blur, a nasty strain of the flu making the rounds of John’s patients, walk-in after walk-in extending John’s day far past usual. He only managed to leave on time because Sarah offered to stay, knowing his commitments on a Tuesday evening.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he called over his shoulder as he ran out the door towards the tube.

He found Sherlock waiting for him at the Community Centre, and was not surprised that his heart leapt at the sight. Sherlock was dressed already in his gi, belt perfectly tied, and he and John talked easily about John’s day before the others arrived, though neither mentioned their text conversation on Sunday evening. John was both relieved and disappointed that the rest of the class was arriving, allowing him to draw his professionalism around him as a defense again the desires being stirred by his proximity to Sherlock.

“Tonight we’ll work on grading again, for the first half,” John said, nodding at Tom, “then some randori for everyone, I think.”

He grinned, and one of the senior students asked, “Tough day, Sensei?”

The rest of the class laughed, and John explained to Sherlock as the others listened, “They think I get rid of my frustrations by working everyone here harder.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, and he replied, “Do you?”

John looked faux horrified at this, and the whole class broke into laughter. “Well, yes, but it’s impolite to talk about it.” He protested over the laughter. After a moment, he clapped his hands twice and the groups broke up the same as the previous week. Jacqui was absent, and Sherlock and the two red belts worked hard on Koryo. John could feel the concentration radiating off Sherlock. It actually worked against him sometimes, tensing his muscles and affecting the angle of his hips. John took the opportunity of the group lesson to correct the angle of Sherlock’s hips, the contact still generating a spark that he could feel through his hands, and a flexing of Sherlock’s muscles. John refused to reflect on the effect he had just felt in Sherlock, instead turning his attention to Lila and her posture. As Tom indicated the time, John nodded, giving him the ‘two minutes’ signal.

“Let’s go through it from the start, now.” John addressed the three students working with him. “At your own pace, concentrate on your angles, your balance and your focus. Smooth transitions, remember the reason for your movements. It’s not dancing, your movements represent a purposeful action. Sharp actions, but relaxed posture.” John spoke earnestly and quietly as the three stood calmly, and he waited until he could see the calm focus come over each of them before he said, “Shi-jak.”

Sherlock felt the calm flowing through him like a drug. John’s voice was mesmerizing, focusing his attention until he felt rather than heard John speak. Sherlock took a deep breath, and launched himself into the sequence, feeling the energy move through his body, charging him for the effort ahead. His mind was clear, all his focus on the task at hand. The broad strokes of the movements were not complex, but the details, the angles and positions were, and the study of the exact placement of his body was all consuming. His mind felt tranquil and in control, a rare combination.

John was impressed. All of the Koryo students had done well. The red belt women wouldn’t be ready for the upcoming grading, but in six months, they would be well prepared. He was proud of them; both women had worked hard and shown commitment to get to this point. They deserved their chance to earn their black belts. Sherlock had done well, too, though John recognized that his techniques were not as clean or polished as the more experienced students. He could see that Sherlock was focusing, though and in his mind, that was the main aim for Sherlock – the application of his overactive brain. He was pleased to see that Sherlock was making an effort and that it was paying off for him.

+++

John called a break, and he used the time to move around the students, speaking to each, answering questions and talking to Tom at length about how the other students had performed during their training. Sherlock watched him move, his conscientiousness evident as he moved deliberately, actively listening to all of his students as they spoke. He really enjoyed this, Sherlock could see, connecting with people. They liked him, too, and Sherlock marvelled at how easy he made it seem. This kind of association had always been a mystery to Sherlock, who had been separated from his peers by both his family and his intellect at a young age. He had never tolerated other people well, and his social skills were correspondingly limited to those instilled by his mother for use at her social events. None of these allowed any real bonds to other people, and Sherlock had eventually given up the expectation that he would ever develop the skills to do so.

“Okay, let’s go.” John raised his voice, the students capping drink bottles and returning to the mat. John split the group into two teams, each moving to a different side of the mat. “Alright, this is how it works.” John announced, “We’ll start with Lila and Tom,” they moved forward to the claps of their teammates. “After 60 seconds, they’ll tag out. Reset after each pin. We’ll go for” he looked at the clock, “twenty minutes. Losing team packs up the mats.” Sherlock found himself grinning at their enthusiasm, and he caught John’s eye for a moment before John moved over to join the opposite side of the mat where his team sat.

Lila and Tom took their starting positions, back to back.

“Hajime!” John barked, and they turned and immediately started grappling. Sherlock found himself enthralled by the techniques they employed and realised that he might be able to pick up some pointers to use during his turn. The techniques John had taught him last week were basic, and these students were showing a far higher skill level. He would be last in his team, as the most junior, so he sat forward and watched intently. The teams changed several times, different people working with a range of techniques and skill levels. Sherlock watched and analyzed, his mind working quickly to apply principles of physics and anatomy to the techniques being used, discarding those with limited application and retaining those he could find useful.

“You’re next!” the man next to him hissed, tapping Sherlock on the arm and drawing his attention. Sherlock nodded at him, then readied himself to get up when the end of the current round occurred. He heard John call it, and Sherlock moved to the middle of the mat, bowing to the orange belted man opposite him. He was built like Sherlock, long arms and legs, high centre of gravity, he thought appraisingly. They sat back to back, and Sherlock waited tensely for the sound of John’s voice. As soon as he heard it, he turned to grasp the collar of his opponent. The next sixty seconds were a blur, as Sherlock grappled, trying to pin his opponent. The man was skilled, Sherlock had to admit, though he held his own well enough. Although he did not pin his opponent, he was not pinned either, and he did execute a throw fairly well, rolling the other man onto his back briefly. All too soon, John’s voice sounded again, ending the session. Sherlock was exhausted after the concentrated effort, and he bowed then returned to his team. He was disappointed in his result, though his teammates seemed to be impressed.

As the second round began, Sherlock notice that Tom was now acting as timekeeper and adjudicator, and John was taking on each member of the class, one after the other. This must be what the others were referring to earlier Sherlock thought, as John grappled again and again with different members of the class. He was working hard, and Sherlock could see that he was tiring. He was definitely favouring his left shoulder, too, and Sherlock wondered if the constant stress of this activity were affecting it. John was certainly putting more pressure on it than he normally might. Above all of this though, Sherlock could see how good John was at this. There were three black belts here tonight, plus the red belted women, and all made John work hard for the pins he earned against them. He was clearly enjoying himself, twisting, grappling and calculating every movement to see weakness and how he could turn an action to his advantage. The others were good, but they could not match his experience, despite the fact that they were less fatigued than he. Finally, it was Sherlock’s turn. He was last, as they had worked in descending order of seniority, and he could see John breathing hard as they faced to bow before sitting back to back. As soon as Tom called “Hajimae!”, Sherlock whirled and threw himself at John, hoping that the moment of surprise might give him an advantage. He was right, though John recovered more quickly than Sherlock thought he might. Sherlock remembered the tips he had given last time they had grappled, and he moved constantly, shifting his weight and grabbing at John’s gi, forcing his attention to the onslaught of possible attacks. He used his long legs too, as he had seen his earlier opponent do – flicking them up and over John’s neck to pull him away when he was close to a pin, pushing off the floor and flipping them over at one point. Just as Sherlock was beginning to tire, Tom called “Yame!” They were both breathing hard now, but Sherlock was satisfied with his efforts. He bowed to John, and John clasped his shoulder, saying,

“Well done.” Sherlock felt himself swell with pride, then turned, confused at the emotion this caused in him. He bowed off the mat, reaching for his drink as an excuse to separate from the group for a moment. He needed to examine this sentiment. What was this, he wondered? He played back the moment, then realised. He couldn’t remember the last time anybody had said ‘Well done’ to him and meant it, with the exception of John. This sentiment was thankfulness, or regret, or relief. Whatever it was, it was because of John. His John. The thought was unexpected, and he stopped, drink halfway to his mouth as he replayed it in his mind. _His_ John? He had never had such a thought, but now that it had surfaced, unbidden from his subconscious, he realised that he did, in fact, want to possess John. Not just in a sexual way, though that aspect had occurred to him over the past week. He wanted to know all about John, how he thought, the way his mind worked, the things that motivated and frightened him. The conversation they had shared by text message had been the closest that Sherlock had come to admitting to himself that he wanted to pursue something more physical with John. His instinct was to touch John more often, to be closer to him when they spoke; he had dreamed at least once about slowly undressing him and mapping every contour of his body with his mouth and hands. Even Sherlock’s limited understanding of social graces told him that generally, that was not considered appropriate amongst nonsexual friends. Most of all, though, he realised with uncharacteristic self-directed insight, he wanted John to want him. It wouldn’t be enough for Sherlock to be close to John, to have a platonic friendship, as rare as that would be for Sherlock. He wanted John to desire him, to want to be close and to understand his mind, too. But how? For the first time in a very long while, Sherlock Holmes had no idea how to go about getting what he wanted.


	14. Ju shi/Yeol net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Subtitle for this chapter: Backstory McAngst, or, What Happened To John's Shoulder And Why He's Pissed At The Army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, lovelies! Only 12 hours til series 4 airs, all of them night time hours here, but I'm planning on binging on series 3 and TAB until that time, so I'm caffeinated and ready to go. Who knows, I might even manage a few hours sleep in there. 
> 
> Anyway, now that I'm back in the land of the Internet access, chapters will be flowing thick and fast again. Yay!
> 
> Also:  
> It was pointed out to me a number of chapters ago that in reality, John would be eligible for a pension. Unfortunately for him, it's an integral part of his backstory that he does not have his pension and is bitter towards the Army, so I've taken some creative licence there. Apologies to the RAMC for that.

Such an idea needed time and privacy, and neither was available at the moment. With some difficulty, Sherlock thrust the thoughts and emotions associated with it into a hastily constructed space in his mind palace and drew himself back to the class. This would have to wait until he was at Baker Street. Until then, he turned and joined the rest of the students in formally finishing the lesson. He could see John rolling his shoulder, wincing slightly at the motion, and he frowned. John rolled his shoulder on average once every twenty seven minutes in a social setting, every sixteen minutes during a class, and twice in succession immediately after a twinge of pain, which occurred at least once each time he grappled in class. Now, though, he was rolling his shoulder two or three times in a row, every two to three minutes, wincing each time, and Sherlock was definitely concerned. After the other students had left, he spoke bluntly to John.

“You’re in pain.” John turned, looked at Sherlock with a closed expression on his face, but nodded once.

“Your shoulder is often sore after grappling – is this worse than usual?” Sherlock asked, and he wondered again if John would acknowledge the question or ignore him. A long pause, then another nod. Sherlock didn’t speak for a moment, unsure what to say in order to comfort John. Honesty was the best policy, apparently. “I’m uncomfortable with my inability to alleviate your discomfort, John.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John blinked, then his demenour changed. The militaristic stance loosened and relaxed, and his face split into a wide grin. “You don’t need to, Sherlock.” John shrugged, the grin fading a bit. “This is what my body’s like. After so many years of pushing it hard, there’s bound to be some aches and pains.” Sherlock could practically see John trying to be convinced by his own words. Frustrated and uncertain how to proceed, he changed the subject rather abruptly.

“Tell me what happened when you were injured.”

“You don’t want to train at all?” John asked, and Sherlock shook his head.

John hesitated. “We should stretch after such physical exertion, and you should not exacerbate the injury to your shoulder. Let’s stretch while you tell me the story.” Sherlock suggested, and John acquiesced. They sat together on the mat, John leading as they slowly worked their way through a series of stretches as John spoke.

“It was the National Jiu Jitsu Titles a few years ago. I had leave coming anyway, so my CO arranged for it to be the same time as the Nationals. It was the first time in a few years I’d been able to attend, being in Afghanistan and all. It was great.” John paused, and Sherlock could see a faint smile trail across his lips as he recalled the memory. “I hadn’t practiced a lot but I was much stronger than I had been, plus the down time at camp was a lot about wrestling, which is similar enough to keep my reflexes sharp. I made it to the semi-finals, up against a young kid in his first major competition. He was probably still at school when I was first deployed, barely had to shave, but he was skilled. I had tried a few things that he’d slipped out of, but I knew I could get him.” John paused again and shook his head. Sherlock waited, knowing John would speak in his own time as soon as he found the words.

“I tried a right side single leg take-down. He saw it coming and instead of working with it, dropping down to control it like almost anyone on the planet, like anyone with some experience, he grabbed my belt and tried to push me into the floor head first, which is completely illegal and dangerous. I managed to twist to protect my head, but he dropped me and fell on me, and all that weight went into my shoulder, which dislocated badly and damaged the tissues around the joint. Total shoulder reconstruction. There was no use trying to get myself back to my unit in Afghanistan.” Sherlock could hear the pain in his voice at this, the frustration at one mistake costing him his Army career.

“What did the Army do?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Offered me a desk job, basically.” John said, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “Training new medical staff, ‘with your front line experience, Doctor Watson, you’d be a real asset’”. The sing song parody of somebody else’s assessment was sad and venomous at the same time. “I elected to take the medical discharge, which was generous under the circumstances. But because the injury wasn’t in the line of duty, I’m not eligible for a pension. So I ended up back in London, no career, no pension, nothing.” John’s voice was flat now, and Sherlock regretted asking about his injury. He hadn’t expected John to go into details of what came after; he had thought he would have a blow by blow of the fight beforehand, or a medical explanation of how his joint was rearranged. This was far more personal, and Sherlock felt honoured but disconcerted that he would trust him with such information. Did he really have that much confidence in him, Sherlock wondered. It was unsettling, dealing with so many new experiences, and Sherlock groped for something to say.

 “What about your brother?” Sherlock asked, and John looked puzzled. “You have Harry Watson’s old phone,” Sherlock explained, “probably your brother.” No need for extended reasoning right now, while he was concentrating all his effort on effectively navigating this sensitive conversation.

“Sister. Harry is short for Harriet.” John replied, and the look of annoyance on Sherlock’s face at this error made John smile, albeit a sad kind of smile. “Harry and I have never got on. She lives in Wales at the moment, with her current wife, and I assume she’s alive because I get a drunken voicemail every few weeks.” John told Sherlock. He nodded slowly, not wanting to say anything inflammatory. This self-regulation was different, but he felt quite keenly the likelihood that he would hurt John, and wanted to avoid such a thing at all costs. It made him tread carefully and consider each response before speaking. It seemed cumbersome but worthwhile to protect John.

“How did all this happen, then?” Sherlock asked, gesturing around the dojang. Hopefully, this was a happier memory.

John sighed before responding. “My therapist, Ella, asked me what I used to do for fun. When I told her it was only ever martial arts, she suggested teaching as an option. I thought it was a terrible idea. I was working at St. Bart’s in the ER, all the shifts they could give me so I’d have something to do. It was unpredictable, but with all the technology and staff available, it was hardly comparable to the challenge of Afghanistan. I was bored.” John shrugged, a little embarrassed, Sherlock observed. Sherlock didn’t understand why – bored was something to which he could definitely relate.

“I wanted something to push myself, try something different. We had a lot of drug addicts come in one weekend, and several nurses were assaulted. Two of them couldn’t face coming back to work. They were too frightened of it happening again, and I wanted to help them. That’s when I decided that maybe teaching could be an okay option. It could be whatever I wanted it to be, especially if I started it on my own terms. A few people at work knew about my background, and with all the work I’d been doing I had some money to buy mats and hire a space. I put up a flyer at work for self-defense classes, like what you’re doing with Lestrade, and it kind of grew from there. I found regular work as a GP, which is even more boring than the ER, but the hours are predictable and it means I can do this too. I’m not rich but I’m getting by.” John stopped there, aware of how much of himself he’d let show. A long silence stretched out as John lost himself in his memories and Sherlock took in the new information.

“Thank you for trusting me with that, John.” Sherlock said quietly. John nodded, his gaze meeting Sherlock’s. It was a long moment while their eyes were locked together, neither moving an inch, understanding passing between them. It was intimate in the way a lot of more physical things were not, John thought as he tried in vain to catalogue the exact colours in Sherlock’s eyes. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked away, and Sherlock did the same.

“What about you?” John asked Sherlock. “How did you get your job with NSY?” They were not even pretending to stretch now, Sherlock sitting cross legged, very upright, John leaning back on his right hand, legs outstretched, should rolling over every now and then.

Sherlock shrugged at the question. His past was murky and he wasn’t sure how John would feel about some of the things he had done, especially in light of his experiences with drug addicts in the ER.

“I met Lestrade one day at a crime scene.” Sherlock said, carefully telling part of the truth without outright lying. “I could see what had happened, see the evidence right there, but nobody seemed to be reading it. I explained it to Lestrade, who arranged for me to come to scenes and help investigate.” This was a heavily sanitized version of Sherlock’s past, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for John to know the depths to which he had sunk. He was ashamed of how close he had come to throwing it all away, and only Mycroft and Lestrade really knew how close that had been. He couldn’t bear that kind of judgement and scorn from John as well, unlikely though it may be. He looked at John and saw a frown of questioning.

“Why were you at a crime scene?” John asked.

Sherlock admitted, “I’d hung around a dodgy end of town and waited for a police car, then followed it. Anyone can duck under a crime scene tape if nobody is watching.” He could see John thinking about this, waiting for the criticism.

Finally, John said mildly, “I can definitely see you having the balls to do something as daft as that. What if you’d ended up being the crime scene, hanging around a dodgy part of London? On your own too, I bet.” This last part was a statement rather than a question, but Sherlock nodded anyway, relieved that John did not seem inclined to press the matter further.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, before Sherlock sighed and stood up. “You really should have someone look at your shoulder, John.”

John shrugged, wincing a little as he rose. “It’ll be fine,” he brushed off Sherlock’s concern.

Sherlock frowned. “If you have in fact injured the soft tissue, your habit of rolling your shoulder to ease the stiffness will continue to exacerbate the damage, and it is unlikely it will ever heal fully.” Sherlock pointed out.

John replied, “I know. But physiotherapy is expensive and this job is quite demanding, I can hardly just pack up shop for four to six weeks until it’s all better, Sherlock.”

Sherlock backed off at this, sensing John’s frustration. “I understand.” He said, schooling his face to a neutral expression and starting to pack up the matting. Stupid, he berated himself, telling John what to do. He didn’t need Sherlock explaining how to deal with a soft tissue injury, he was a medical doctor, for goodness sake. John would surely resent the implication that Sherlock was better versed in medical matters, and the tentative friendship they had been developing would be ruined, replaced with a cold professionalism, if that. Sherlock’s head was so loud he didn’t hear John, only realising he had spoken when John laid a hand on his arm.

“Hey, are you okay?” John asked, voice full of concern. Sherlock gazed at him blankly. He didn’t appear to be behaving in a manner consistent with Sherlock’s predictions, and this was confusing.

“I didn’t mean to imply that I had superior knowledge of your injury, John.” Sherlock blurted. It wasn’t an apology exactly, but hopefully John would hear the regret in his tone. John blinked.

“I know. You just want me to take care of myself. It’s fine, I was actually asking if you’d mind if we skipped dinner tonight, I want to go home and RICE my shoulder.” He grinned wryly. “As my far more intelligent friend pointed out, it’s unlikely it will ever heal fully if I don’t take care of it.”

“I’m your friend?” Sherlock asked.

John frowned a little, before replying, “Well, yes. Aren’t you?”

Sherlock was speechless. “Er…I mean to say, um….I suppose…yes?” This hesitancy was so uncharacteristic that John broke into laughter, before he saw the confusion in Sherlock’s eye. The laughter faded, and he peered at Sherlock, who was now looking embarrassed at the scrutiny.

“You haven’t had many friends, have you Sherlock?” John asked quietly.

“People who like me, who seek out my attention to spend time in my company for the pleasure of it? Not exactly, no.” Sherlock admitted, though he looked directly at John while he said it. John nodded, returning the gaze, then smiled and turned to finish putting the mats away.

“Kyle’s wrist should be healed enough to come to class tomorrow,” John told Sherlock as they left the dojang. “I won’t have to take part then, at least.” Sherlock nodded, not sure if John was asking his opinion of the plan or trying to assuage his worry about the injury.

“That’s good.” Sherlock replied, hoping that met John’s expectations.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” John said, as they stood in their usual place, below the CCTV camera.

“Take care of yourself, John.” Sherlock said sincerely, and had to stop himself stepping in for some kind of last physical contact. He saw that John registered the slight motion, eyes widening, though he stood his ground. After a long, heavy pause, Sherlock extended his hand, and John grasped it gladly. They stood shaking hands slowly, the warm gentle slide of skin on skin creating a friction that neither could ignore. The motion slowed, until only their grip remained, suspended between them as though waiting for one or the other to upset the fine balance they had created. Neither moved an inch, unwilling to change the delicate status quo without further exploration. Finally, as if by mutual agreement they let go, fingers sliding past each other to the very tips. Neither spoke before they turned away, John to the tube, Sherlock to walk aimlessly until Mycroft’s car picked him up. He had a lot to think about.


	15. Ju go/Yeol dasut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson is more perceptive than she looks...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAS EVERYONE SEEN THE SIX THATCHERS? Don't worry, I'm not going to post any spoilers. It was awesome. I was actually cursing Mark Gatiss out loud at one point. I picked some things, got blindsided by some things, and haven't decided if I was happy or not at the end of the episode. Just as I expected, really. And now, just to make sure, I'm watching it for the third time (I booked today, next Monday and the following one as 'me' days months ago, so I can obsessively and indulgently watch the new episode over and over for the whole season's release days). 
> 
> So in celebration of the relief I think we all feel at finally KNOWING WHATS HAPPENING (at least a little), I'm posting a new chapter now. A good meaty Sherlock introspection. Enjoy! x

Sherlock made his brain review all the grappling moves he had seen that evening as he walked home to Baker Street to avoid thinking about The John Situation. Leaping up the stairs two at a time, he discarded his coat before flopping down on the couch, knees over one arm rest, feet dangling to the floor. He was about to descend into his mind palace when Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, her voice preceding the footfalls so characteristically hers (uneven due to that bad hip).

“Yoo-hoo!” she trilled, and Sherlock was impatient, already having denied himself the analysis of whatever it was that was occurring with John.

“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock replied when her footsteps indicated that she had arrived at his open doorway. He had closed his eyes already and was not willing to open them, to admit to himself that the mind palace and faux-John experience were to be replaced by reality, however temporarily.

“Just some soup, dear, I made too much as usual, thought you might be peckish what with all your new judo training.” She said brightly, bustling into the kitchen. She clearly took Sherlock’s acknowledgement of her existence as permission to enter, he thought again, wishing he had remembered to close the door when he had come in.

“Thank you. Now I am very busy, so please go back to your flat.” Sherlock announced, though she continued to fuss around his kitchen, looking for somewhere to put the soup bowl down. Finally, a small space on the bench appeared and she slid the bowl into it, careful not to bump his microscope.

“Sherlock,” she admonished his tone absently, then went on, “and how is the judo going, then?” He could hear the cheeky wink in her voice as she added, “Met anyone lovely, then?”

“Mrs. Hudson, I am only attending the classes at the direction of DI Lestrade, without whom I would not be allowed to access crime scenes.” Sherlock informed her, ignoring the judo/jiu jitsu mistake. She wouldn’t remember even if he did correct her. She sniffed, a little offended but no more than usual, he judged. With relief, he noted that she started crossing the room towards the door. Before she left, though, she did throw back at him, “I thought those classes were on a Wednesday, Sherlock? Bit of one on one practice tonight, was it?” He didn’t dignify that with a reply, though she would have been delighted had he explained the actual situation with John. A romantic through and through, Mrs. Hudson held strongly to her belief that there was someone out there for Sherlock, if only he would give them a chance. As Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps faded away, Sherlock closed his eyes, steepled his hands, and started trying to figure out what it was that made John both fascinating and frustrating.

The frustrating and fascinating were linked, of course. The fascinating was easy, in a way, Sherlock thought. He was such a mass of contradictions. The healer and the fighter. The softness of his body when engaging in jiu jitsu, and the hardness of his voice when barking commands at those students arguing. The bitterness at the end of his army career, and the compassion and patience for his students. The way his voice both calmed the chaos of Sherlock’s mind and excited it at the same time. It was an interesting combination, and Sherlock felt that the unique permutation of these traits would make John behave in unpredictable ways in almost every scenario. He already had, in fact, surprising Sherlock a number of times with his understanding and kindness where others had shown him only scorn and derision. John seemed to have the ability to see beyond the tactlessness and gruffness of his exterior to (and Sherlock was brutally honest about this, if only to himself), the awkwardness he faced when presented with emotional or a personal situation. Sherlock was very good in social situations, provided they involved absolutely no emotion or unexpected events. His mother had ensured that he and Mycroft could tell at a glance who outranked whom, which cutlery to use at supper and exactly how long he should attend to the host at a formal dinner. None of these things helped him now, though. An oversight, he realised, as he finally met somebody with whom he would like to…what, exactly? Initially, Sherlock had believed that he wanted to understand John. Now, as he saw John in more diverse situations, and his reactions continued to defy the careful predictions Sherlock made, he realised that he understood John less, not more. He would have to spend an eternity with John to seek out and examine all the nuances of his personality.

And that was where the frustrating came in. All the things that fascinated Sherlock about John also frustrated him beyond belief. How on earth was he supposed to accurately evaluate such a person? The complexity of this man, this unassuming Army doctor, was beyond belief. He should have been a straightforward man, no ambiguity, and instead, he made Sherlock question himself at every turn – and Sherlock relished it. At least, he thought he relished it. When he thought about that specifically, he was almost angry with frustration, but the idea of eschewing John to avoid this effect was unthinkable. He wanted to examine this self-doubt, figure it out and restrain it, rather than evade it’s source. His ability to control a situation by predicting responses and actions was severely compromised with John. Sherlock had relied on this skill, and the related skills of observation and deduction, since he was first sent to boarding school, with it’s hierarchy of social groups and unwritten rules of behavior. Only his ability to observe, deduce and use that information to control the outcome of interactions had prevented him from being physically as well as emotionally compromised by the experiences. Out of habit, Sherlock had continued this throughout his life, finding that in the real world, deducing a cheating spouse or unappetizing personal habit tended to make people back off, thus preventing him from having to deal with other people in anything other than a professional capacity. His brother and Lestrade were the sole exceptions, aside from Mrs. Hudson.  Each had shown care for Sherlock despite his behaviour, and this had earned them a grudging respect and even affection (in Mrs. Hudson’s case), beyond anyone Sherlock had met.

But now, John. The odd thing was that Sherlock wasn’t waiting for John to look past his usual brusque behaviour – he had no intention of submitting John to that kind of treatment, designed as it was to keep people at arm’s length. Sherlock wanted to protect John. He wanted to keep him safe, and that idea would be laughable at first glance, except that he didn’t mean in a physical way. He had heard how frustrated and hurt John was at his dismissal from the Army, and Sherlock wanted to find the arrogant arse who had let such a remarkable human being go and make them hurt, too. Last night, as they sat on the mats and he listened to John’s words, the tone of his voice was heartbreaking. Sherlock had read his body language, too. His bowed head, gaze averted, fiddling with the hem of his gi – all had indicated guilt, shame, and embarrassment. He felt lessened by his injury, Sherlock could see. And rather than sneer at him, or dismiss it, or worse yet, delete the information, Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to gather John up and hold him until he felt whole again.

So. Physical proximity was desirable, Sherlock surmised. And yes, that made sense. His heart rate was elevated just at the thought, and he knew from experience that the closer John was to him, the more heightened his senses. He could remember with great clarity the feel of John’s body pressed against his as he demonstrated a shoulder lock in class; the exact scent that had enveloped him as he grappled with John; the sound of his laughter as Sherlock admitted baiting Donovan and Anderson with his knowledge of their affair. Classic signs of attraction, and Sherlock wanted more of that, of all that. Despite people’s assumptions, Sherlock had been intimate with several people, mostly men, during his time at college. As the courses themselves were not challenging, Sherlock had turned his attention to the challenge of manipulating people, again using his ability to observe to do so. He had been moderately successful, given his refusal to target anyone that was not sober or clean, medically and recreationally, but still, he had bored of it quickly. The challenge was over once they agreed to go home with him, and the sexual acts themselves had seemed mundane and unappealing.

Thinking back now to those acts, and placing John in the scenarios, Sherlock felt an immediate rush. He actually gasped out loud, the sound harsh and resonant in the silence of the flat, as he imagined John’s skin, John’s hands, John’s mouth... Shaking it off, Sherlock realised two things. Firstly, he had a raging erection, more urgent than he had experienced in a very long time. Secondly, he had no idea what to do next. All of a sudden, the clarity that John had helped to bring to his mind was gone, and a thousand questions raced through his head at once, each more demanding than the last. How did he go about tell John…What exactly was it that he wanted to tell John? How did one put all that into words? What if John didn’t feel the same way? Although Sherlock had felt the atmosphere change significantly several times, particularly when they were alone, John may not have noticed. What had happened this evening then, as they had parted ways? He had been going to hug John, or perhaps kiss him, but had reined in the impulse. John had shaken his hand though, and had not seemed unduly uncomfortable at the longer than standard handshake, or the fact that they had held each other’s gaze for that entire time. Had John been about to kiss _him_? Perhaps John was a little ill at ease with the student/teacher relationship, and that was the reason for these uncomfortable silences. Although, a small part of him admitted, they had been able to sit in silence quite comfortably, neither feeling the need to fill the space with chatter. It was only a few select moments when that expectant, heavy atmosphere had surrounded them, and Sherlock just wasn’t sure what it meant, exactly.

There was no certainty with people, that was the problem, Sherlock groused to himself, throwing his body up and climbing over the coffee table in disgust. He needed to know, to be sure before he could act accordingly. If John was not interested in him, in a relationship with him, he could settle for a friendship. Possibly. Either way, if he acted without knowing for certain, the risk that John would reject him was too great. He would not risk losing John from his life now, when there was still so much left to learn.


	16. Ju roku/Yeol yeosup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the work gets in the way of the mandatory classes...BAMF!Lestrade gets a moment to shine.

John had taken a rare day off on Wednesday. He had barely slept on Tuesday night, tossing and turning as his brain raged on without his permission. In the end, he had risen and made a cup of tea, sitting on the tired old couch by the light of the kitchen, thinking about Sherlock. It had come to the point where he had to make a decision. The handshake they had shared, especially after that conversation, had been so fraught with subtext he was surprised they had made it out alive. For a moment, just a short moment, he had thought Sherlock had been going to kiss him. His weight had shifted, and he might have been heading in for a hug, but John was sure his eyes had flicked down to his mouth for a second, and his breath had caught. John’s brain had filled in the gaps, hypothesizing about the taste of his lips, the feel of his tongue caressing John’s, the sensation of their bodies pressed together out of desire rather than as a training exercise. He had swallowed hard at the imagery. Perhaps that was what had made Sherlock hesitate, but then he had extended his hand, and John’s hand slid into his much larger, softer one, and they had stood there, shaking hands, then holding hands, for a long, slow moment. John had been seeing stars when he walked away, his breathing having more or less given out halfway through as his brain focused on more important things, like the exact details of Sherlock’s hands, or the way he was looking at John with such a swirl of emotions he could barely keep up. John was good at reading people; it came with the healer/good listener part of himself. He tended to look at people’s faces, really look, and he had seen raw emotion many times, but this was more complex than he had seen in a long time. Sherlock looked shocked, scared, frustrated, and over the top of it all, _wanting_. His eyes were a kaleidoscope of colours, and John was fairly sure he could have made them flutter closed with a gentle touch of his lips to Sherlock’s. His own hesitancy had allowed the moment to pass, and probably for the better, he thought now, cradling the cooling tea. To make a move of his own would be violating his own standard of ethics, no matter how loud the subtext, and he wanted nothing more than to protect Sherlock from the humiliation of any kind of potential misunderstanding. If Sherlock was interested, John would just have to follow his lead.  A small voice suggested that Sherlock, the man who had rarely enough had even a friend, may not be the best person to rely on making the first move, but John was adamant with himself. He would not take advantage of Sherlock. That man needed people to look out for him, and John was determined that he would put Sherlock’s interests before his own, especially in this. With that decision made, John rose, tipped his cold tea into the sink and, rolling his sore shoulder over, decided that a wank in the shower might be the only way he could get any sleep.

+++

As it turned out, that wasn’t entirely true. His shower had been moderately satisfying in a physical way, his hyperactive imagination providing vivid and imaginative ways for he and Sherlock to pleasure each other over and over again. Unfortunately, despite the tepid water, he had lay in bed watching the sky lighten as his brain continued to supply details of these scenarios until he found there was nothing for it than to have another shower, complete with frantic movement of his hand over straining erection, and the inevitable orgasm against the cold tiles. Finally he had resorted to medicinal help, downing two sleeping tablets as he called work to tell them he wasn’t coming in. The wave of sleep had been a relief in the end, and John had slept until early afternoon, the insistent chirp of his mobile phone dragging him unwillingly back from the depths of his slumber. Groaning, he struggled upright, wincing as his stiff shoulder protested the movement. His sleep cycle would be shot for days, he thought grimly as he reached for the phone. Two voicemails, he saw, both in the last hour, both from Greg Lestrade. Yawning, he dialed in to his voicemail, letting it go on speaker so he could drop the phone and stretch his shoulder out.

Fifty seven minutes ago, a tired sounding voice:

“Hi John, it’s Greg Lestrade. Look, my team is in the middle of a big case so I don’t know if we’re going to make it tonight. I’ll ask around and see, we’re waiting on some test results so it might depend on how everyone’s going. Just wanted to let you know. Cheers.”

And the message from a few minutes ago, a more exasperated tone this time:

“Greg again. Right, we’ll be there. Sherlock almost had a meltdown when I suggested we skip out, and right now we could all do with a distraction while we wait for results and things to happen. We’ll be there more or less on time, but we might have to run out if something breaks, sorry mate.”

John chuckled at the mental sight of Sherlock’s reaction to Lestrade’s suggestion, then stopped and frowned. John thought that Sherlock found cases all consuming? Why had he changed his mind, insisting the team comes to class that evening? John mused on that for a moment, before he realised something else. He would see Sherlock tonight, with a group of his colleagues, two of whom definitely had it in for him, one of whom was his boss. Excellent. No pressure at all to act normal. He just had to hope that Sherlock was a decent actor.

+++

The whole group arrived together in a minibus, John saw in amazement. He and Kyle had been chatting to the receptionist about the plans to expand the Community Centre when the bus pulled up and his class piled out, like clowns from a clown car, he thought absently. Each looked disgruntled except for Lestrade, who had a grimly determined look on his face. Sherlock disembarked last, looking sulky, if John had to choose an adjective. Well, this would be fun, he thought sarcastically before bidding Jessica-the-receptionist goodbye and joining Lestrade.

“Fun day?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at Lestrade.

For a moment he really thought Greg would clock him one, before he half sighed half chuckled. “Bitch of a case,” he admitted, “and everyone’s on edge, but there’s nothing we can do now, so I’ve made everyone come here for some down time.”

John nodded in understanding, rapidly changing his plans as they walked. He had been going to do something different anyway, but even that was out the window with this new information. “Anything I should know about?” He asked, pausing to bow as they entered the training space. Sherlock was on one side of the room as usual, away from the others, dressed already and looking moody.

Lestrade answered John’s query in a low tone, “Sherlock’s stroppy because I wouldn’t give him blood samples to test himself, he had to wait for the lab results like everyone else. He’s the only one who actually wanted to come, not that you’d know from his face,” he pointed to Donovan and Anderson, the former pointedly ignoring the latter as he tried to talk to her. “Anderson and his wife are expecting a baby, and he’s gone back to live with her, so Donovan is pissed.”

John rolled his eyes, guessing the next part. “How long did it take for Sherlock to work that out and announce it to everyone?”

Lestrade barked a laugh. “You’re as bad as he is, how did you know that happened?”

John felt himself grow red. “Good guess,” he murmured, then added, “You’d better get changed, we’ll start in a minute.” John then left to talk to Sherlock, taking a deep breath as he did so.

“Hi,” he started with, smiling at Sherlock. The moody overtone didn’t change, but at least Sherlock looked at him.

His eyes swept over John for a moment, before he said brusquely, “You didn’t go to work today, probably because you didn’t sleep last night. I assume Lestrade woke you when he called this afternoon. Is your shoulder keeping you awake?”

John blinked, then smiled again at Sherlock, who looked even more annoyed. “Thanks for noticing.” He said lightly and walked over to the chairs, unstacking several and standing them in a row perpendicular to the matting. There was no point trying to talk to Sherlock, that much was clear, and getting into an argument wouldn’t help anyone. Sherlock was obviously annoyed, and some of that bled over into his comments to John. The best thing he could do for this class was help them forget the frustrations of what was clearly a long, difficult day. Hopefully, the combination of the case and some form of lesson would help Sherlock’s mind, too.

“Alright, we’re doing things a bit differently tonight.” John addressed the class, and they moved over to stand in a loose semi-circle around him. Everyone was present, and John continued to talk as he assessed each of their faces. Most looked tired, stressed and not all that happy to be here. Oh well, he’d had worse at the start of a class, and he did like a challenge.

“Greg tells me you’ve had a pretty hard day, so we’ll throw out the rule book and tonight we are going to have some fun.” John told them. “You’ve all worked pretty hard in the last three weeks, so we can afford some down time. We’ll do a warm up, then we can run through some of the games that I play with my junior classes. They have good bases in martial arts skills and philosophy, and some are just for fun.” He grinned. “I brought some boards, too, if anyone wants to have a go at kicking one or two in.” Kyle looked excited at this, and the rest of the group appeared to be somewhere between excited and relieved that this class would not tax their already overworked brains too much.

“Okay, let’s start with a warm up.” John lead the group through an easy warm up, nothing too complex, until they were all loose and he could see in their shoulders that they were relaxing. He was wary of his shoulder, deliberately choosing actions that would not aggravate it.

“First up, a couple of obstacle courses.” John announced. He’d set up some chairs and a table, and some kicking mitts on the mats, and he showed them where to line up single file. “Looks easy enough, right?” He said, and had Sally demonstrate going over the smaller chairs, under the table, then around the mitts in a zigzag pattern. Everybody nodded, though he could see Sherlock’s eye narrow as he sensed the ‘But,’.

“But,” John said, looking at Sherlock, whose face epitomized ‘smugness’. John waited until their eyes met and he could acknowledge that Sherlock had picked it, before he allowed his gaze to wander again. He held up a blindfold and grinned.

“Let’s see how you go like this.” He said, and the groans of faux-disappoint turned into chuckles as they watched Lestrade struggle through the first time. He swore as he bumped his head on the table, and John admonished him, “Oh, that’s a penalty, Greg. Ten pushups before you continue.” The good natured ribbing continued as each made their way through, and the tension from earlier was slowly forgotten. John went through several variations of the obstacle course, including moving as a pair and carrying a balloon between your knees, before he took the blindfold again and offered it to Sally.

“Marco Polo,” he announced. “Off the mat is out of bounds, if you find someone they’re it.” It was a simple game but, as John knew, the simple ones were the best. Everyone had a good time, some acrobatics earning cheers for both Sherlock and Anderson, before Lestrade’s mobile phone shattered the concentrated silence that had fallen while Kyle stalked one of the other techs. Immediately, everyone stopped, Lestrade jumping up to answer the call. The tension fell over the group again like a sun shower, affecting everyone, John noticed. His eyes moved automatically to Sherlock, and he was surprised to see that Sherlock was already watching him, looking both sad and apprehensive. Once he realised John was watching, his face became more shuttered and he looked away. John was puzzled – Sherlock had never shut himself off from John like that before. Had he been frightened off by their farewell last night? Confused? They had not had an opportunity to talk about it, and with the case on, John knew that Sherlock would be essentially out of contact until it broke. John swore internally at the abysmal timing of it all. The last thing Sherlock needed was time to think. That huge brain of his might jump to all sorts of conclusions, and John instinctively wanted to talk to him, to hear firsthand how Sherlock was dealing with whatever this was that was emerging between them. The best John could hope for was that the case took all his concentration, and that John could then get to him before he over thought anything.

“Let’s go, we’ve got results.” Lestrade announced, all business. “Sorry, John,” he shook his head.

John waved him off, resolving to text him later asking for an update. “Of course, I hope it winds up quickly,” he answered as they all grabbed their things, a chorus of “sorry,” and “thanks, John” drifting back. He waved them out, only to turn around and realise Sherlock was still there. They looked blankly at each other for a moment, and John said to Kyle, “Go and ask Jessica about those school holiday hours, would you please?” The young man seemed to have no idea of the atmosphere that had developed, simply moving out the door, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

“Don’t you have to go?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “They’ll wait.” He said, then opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. John waited. He obviously had something to say if he had hung back after class. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again. “I may not speak to you again before Friday, but if I possibly can I will be here.” He paused, then added in a rush, “Can I assume we will practice after class before we share an evening meal?” John nodded automatically, before wondering with a rush of anticipation if Sherlock was asking him on a date. Before he could speak, Sherlock nodded curtly, then swept past John and out the door, a perfunctory bow the only pause.

Kyle came back in as Sherlock left, asking John idly, “What did he want?”

John, still watching Sherlock disappear down the corridor, answered, “I’m not exactly sure, to be honest.”


	17. Ju shichi/Yeol ilgup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's shoulder is still not right, but Sherlock has a plan...

_Thursday, 11.03am._

_Let me know when the case is over. Hope last night was the break you needed. JHW_

_Friday, 3.14pm_

_Done, finally. A mountain of paperwork though. Still on for tomorrow night? GL_

_Absolutely. JHW_

 

After the odd sort of lesson on Wednesday, John really had no idea what to expect on Friday. Would Sherlock show up? If he did, what would he be like? He assumed that Sherlock did not sleep a lot while on a case, given the speed with which his brain would surely be working, and they had only wrapped things up that afternoon. Perhaps he would go home and sleep until Saturday afternoon or so. After so much time working at high speed, his brain must surely be ready to idle for a while, allowing him the quiet he needed to rest properly. He wouldn’t need to come to class, and the private lesson would be redundant too. John felt a twinge of disappointment at that. After such a lot of introspection over the past couple of weeks, he had to admit that he had come to like the detective with the funny name and incredible hair. He had looked forward to their lessons, and felt put out when he didn’t show up. Most telling, they had talked easily during their time together, but there had also been times that they had sat quietly, neither feeling the need to fill the silence with small talk. John had come to treasure those few gentle, comfortable times, rare as it was in life. In the conversation they had had on Tuesday, John had explained parts of his life he’d never shared with anyone, the instinctive knowledge that this man would understand the frustration of not going back into a war zone. For all their differences, he and Sherlock were remarkably similar; perhaps their differences just made them complementary. Either way, it seemed to be exactly what John needed. The grey veil that he had felt slowly settling over his life had lifted, and he knew that the unexpectedness of Sherlock was the cause. From the time he had burst into John’s office to his honestly during their text conversation about the fortune cookie, John’s affection had grown, and his protective nature had kicked in. It wasn’t just that, though. John knew his attraction had grown beyond the platonic draw he had felt that day in his office; he wanted Sherlock, and unless his radar was sadly offline, Sherlock wanted him, too. John wasn’t sure how many private lessons he could run with Sherlock, critically examining his body, or grappling across the floor, their bodies pressed together, he could manage before his mouth or his body gave the game away. He could only do his best to be professional today, and there hopefully would be a chance to talk to Sherlock before their private lesson this evening.

On that track, John rolled his shoulder over, and winced. His shoulder was sore, more so than usual. He would sit out this evening’s class. Tom was doing well as sah beom nim, and John wanted to give him more opportunity to work with a larger group of students. He was keen, and John’s shoulder gave him a good excuse to sit out from anything too strenuous. He could act assistant to Tom today, just keep out of trouble in more ways than one. Provided Sherlock showed up, that was.

+++

Having set up the mats, John waited impatiently for his students to arrive. He’d slipped out of work early, scheduling no patients for the last half hour of surgery, to ensure he arrived early in case Sherlock wanted to talk, but it was 5.15 and nobody had arrived. Most of the class knew not to bother being early on a Friday, John barely making it himself most weeks, so he was not surprised that the class arrived in a late surge after 5.20. John greeted each of them, but it was the arrival of the tall slim figure already in his gi that made his heart jump and the tension in his shoulders relax. Sherlock stood from his bow in the doorway and caught John’s gaze. John smiled tentatively, and Sherlock smiled openly back. A rush of relief continued through John as he walked over and spoke quietly to Sherlock as he removed his coat and scarf.

“I’m glad you made it.” He said, and watched Sherlock turn to face him.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Sherlock replied, and up close John could see how tired and drawn he looked, though the smile on his face seemed genuine. John couldn’t help smiling back, relieved that the withdrawn demenour from Wednesday appeared to be gone with the end of the case.

“You solved the case.” John said, allowing the admiration colour his tone. Sherlock shrugged, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed his pleasure at the implied compliment.

“It was a trickier one, probably an eight,” Sherlock informed him, though the self-effacing attitude was entirely unconvincing.

“How’s your head feeling?” John asked, keeping his voice quiet.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, before answering. “Usually after a case like this, I sleep for a long period of time.” He told John, who felt slightly smug at his correct guess. “This time, though, I couldn’t sleep when I knew there was a class on.” Sherlock admitted quietly, though his gaze didn’t falter from John’s face, which reddened with confused pleasure and embarrassment.

“Oh, um, that’s good?” John managed, not sure if he was meant to be glad or apologetic. Sherlock didn’t elaborate, so John just said, “We’ll start in a couple of minutes.”

As he turned away, Sherlock spoke again. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Not great,” John admitted. He rolled it reflexively, not quite keeping the wince off his face. He wrinkled his nose in frustration at the reaction.

“Tom’s going to run tonight’s class so I’ll be able to watch the students who are preparing for their grading as well as rest my shoulder. Win-win, right?” John told Sherlock, who seemed to be watching him intently. After a moment, Sherlock nodded, before moving away to join the rest of the class. John stood for a moment, trying to figure out what that conversation had been about. Sherlock had been trying to tell him something, or perhaps giving him the information to work something out, though John had no idea what that might be. John had thought he would be pleased that he was making an effort to rest his shoulder, but there had been no reaction. Oh well, if he was here, they would almost certainly do some work after class together, and John would get his chance for a real conversation then.

+++

The lesson went well, Tom growing in confidence with every class he lead. John was pleased that he could use the lesson to evaluate all the grading students. They were ready, he thought, only a few confidence issues and one rolled ankle that would be fine as long as she strapped it properly. He couldn’t help keeping an eye on Sherlock as he worked, and wondered if his surreptitious gazes had been noticed by Sherlock. He appeared to be concentrating, but John could see a tension underlying his muscles. It was different to the tension they felt while they worked closely together - John was on the other side of a room containing a good dozen people, for one thing. It was more in his shoulders and neck, John thought, his anatomical knowledge coming to the fore automatically. Sherlock needed to relax his shoulder and neck muscles (splenius capitis, splenius cervicius, levator scapulae…). Was he anxious about something? He seemed to be genuinely pleased to see John, and there was no chance of them interacting much, if at all, this whole lesson. So what was the anxiety about? John had to force himself to stop watching Sherlock and musing on the source of his stress and concentrate on the other students. This wasn’t the time, and his opportunity to ask would come soon.

+++

The lesson over, John congratulated Tom on a good lesson. He had worked well with the small groups, each preparing a demonstration of techniques to evade a given attack, then presenting to the others. A clever way to have students working with different levels and in a new way. John was lucky to have his input, and he knew it. When he had finished debriefing, Tom and the rest of the students drifted out as John fiddled with the contents of his bag, putting off the moment in which he would speak to Sherlock. Finally, he knew the room was empty except for Sherlock. He could feel the tall man’s presence; not hear him breathing exactly, but John knew where he was. He turned and walked over to where Sherlock was standing next to his coat and scarf, drinking from his water bottle.

“Good lesson?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Not bad.” He replied, and John raised an eyebrow, a silent request for more information. “Not what I was expecting, but it seemed sufficient provided I concentrated. My head is better than it was when I came in, however.”

John looked at him again, noticing how exhausted he appeared. “Sleep would help, you know. We could have done a lesson tomorrow instead.” He said, part exasperation at the lack of care Sherlock seemed to have for listening to his body.

Sherlock frowned. “You said that you’re not going to completely rearrange your life to provide private lessons whenever I want them.” Sherlock pointed out.

John blinked. “Well, yes, but that was…” He stopped, not wanting to say, “before I realised how amazing you are,” Sherlock was waiting for the end of the sentence, so he finished lamely, “before we were friends.” Sherlock nodded, but John could see that he didn’t really understand.

“When you stormed in, demanding I rearrange my life for you, Sherlock, I had no idea who you were, really, or anything about you. There was no way I was going to go out of my way to make your life easier.” He stopped again, thinking about how the next sentence would sound.

“And now?” Sherlock asked, intently.

John swallowed. “And now,” John repeated, “I would.” Sherlock looked at him for a long time, and John made himself meet those amazing eyes for a moment, before pulling his gaze away. He knew he was sending mixed messages, holding an intense gaze one second and moving away the next, but he needed to talk about a few things with Sherlock, see where he was at before…anything. Even the thought that he was contemplating anything with Sherlock, his student, the man who had come to him for help and advice about trusting his instincts, was confusing and a little confronting. But this was not the place. John cleared his throat.

“I’m not sure-”he started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Neither am I.”

John stared, then guessed, “I rolled my shoulder as I spoke, so you knew I was going to suggest we skip the private lesson.” Sherlock grinned at him, the first genuine smile John had seen since the end of the lesson, and the tension dissipated.

They both visibly relaxed, and Sherlock said with only a hint of condescension, “Very good, John. Correct. Shall I pack up the mats and we can adjourn?” John nodded, packing away the content of his bag before meeting Sherlock at the door.

“Baker Street first, if you have no objection.” Sherlock said, and John nodded. The black car was waiting for them this time, and Sherlock held the door for John as they ducked to enter. As they settled, and Sherlock directed the driver to Baker Street, John looked at him. He seemed anxious still, though the sag of his shoulders spoke of fatigue.

“You seemed tight during the class.” John remarked, then wished he hadn’t.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, then raised one eyebrow and said, “I didn’t realise you were watching so closely.”

John had felt the blush start as soon as he finished speaking, but Sherlock’s words made it flare even more strongly, and he was grateful for the darkness of the car. He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “I watched everyone, that’s was what I was meant to be doing.” He said, though the tilt of Sherlock’s head said he wasn’t fooled. Sherlock didn’t reply, and they fell into silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but John could feel the weight of the words he wanted to say, and it was with this weight they sat until the car came to a smooth halt outside 221 Baker Street. They alighted and Sherlock marched inside, striding up the stairs as John followed, heavy bag bouncing on his hip. As they walked into the living room, John stopped. It wasn’t tidier, exactly, but it did look different. That was probably due to the tall blond god of a man who was sitting on the couch. He rose to greet Sherlock as they entered, then turned to John.

“You must be John, I’m Zeph,” he introduced himself easily, and John shook the offered hand automatically.

“Hi,” John replied, looking to Sherlock with a ‘what is going on?’ look on his face, but he had gone. John had to follow Sherlock into the kitchen, where he had disappeared. “Who is Zeph, and why does he seem to be expecting me?” John asked sotto voce. Sherlock turned and looked at John, and John realised he looked nervous.

“Oh my god, is he-” Sherlock cut across him again before John could decide if ‘escort’ or ‘prostitute’ was the correct term to describe a man in that profession.

“Zeph is a remedial massage therapist. Your shoulder should be attended to, there’s no point us working together tonight if you are not at full capacity, so he is here to work on your shoulder, after which you may shower if you wish, before we dine.” John stared opened mouthed as Sherlock spoke. He couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or flattered or what exactly he felt, but watching Sherlock’s wide eyes as he spoke, the quick almost apologetic words, he realised that this was what had been stressing Sherlock during class time and in the car. He knew this was arranged and did not know how John would react.

John consciously relaxed his body, then smiled at Sherlock. “Thank you.” He said simply, letting the words hang in the air.

Sherlock, who had appeared to have braced for an attack, blinked once, then nodded again, his own body relaxing. “He’s set up his table upstairs for privacy,” Sherlock explained, “take as long as you need.” John nodded at him, then turned to go back into the living room for his appointment with the gorgeous-but-not-an-escort Zeph.


	18. Ju hachi/Yeol yeodul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeph's gone, so what now?

Sherlock sat in his chair as John and Zeph disappeared upstairs into the spare room. Sherlock’s mind was in an odd place, and he felt out of sorts. He was tired, his bones felt weary, but the idea of missing a class with John for something as boring as sleep had been unthinkable. His mind had been occupied by the case, but John had gently inserted himself into the thought patterns that generally made a case progress smoothly. He had made associations with John in scents, phrases, and ideas, disrupting the logical progression of his thoughts, having to start again. This was disconcerting, having one idea break across all the others and scatter them like dandelion seeds in the wind, never to be collected quite the same again. The lesson on Wednesday had not helped, though Lestrade had threatened to ban him for the rest of the case if he refused to go. Of course he wanted to go, had thrown a fit at the idea of not going, but a split second later realised that John in person would be a thousand times more distracting that John in his head. He had then been awful to John, rude and short and everything he had sworn he wouldn’t ever be. Not to John. And then the icing on the cake – John had looked at him, really looked beneath the layers, and he had smiled, and spoken calmly and walked away. Sherlock had been surprised, of course, though John was always surprising, but he had also been worried. Had John decided that emotional investment was unwise? If he had decided to disengage from Sherlock, he wouldn’t care if Sherlock was awful, he could just ignore him. The thought made Sherlock go cold all over, until the class had started, and John had looked at him, a knowing look that said, ‘I know you’d have figured this out already.’ And he had known, had figured that a simple obstacle course would not be all it seemed to be, but the look had meant so much more. It had meant, ‘I’m not angry, I understand and I’m giving you space, but I know it’s not about me and it’s okay’. All of that from one look, Sherlock had marveled. And then the lesson had seemed brighter, the games more purposeful. He had relaxed more, felt his mind melt into a pool of calm until Lestrade’s phone had rung, dragging them out of paradise and back into the case. He had schooled his face carefully, hoping to keep his emotions from showing. Desperate not to let the evening go to waste, Sherlock had spoken to John, hoping that his own understanding had come through, though his experience in using nonverbal communication was woefully lacking.

The case had been tortuous, Sherlock feeling every second drag, the possibility that they would not be done in time for his attendance at Friday’s class hanging over his head like a guillotine. He had been manic, certainly far more than usual. He had paced, and talked to himself, roamed London and sent dozens of his homeless network scouring London for that final clue. It had eluded him, and he had not seen it until it had been almost too late. John had been a constant presence in his head after the class on Wednesday, quietly drawing attention away from the case, from the patterns and connections that usually came so easily. After all of that, though, his first thought after they caught the criminal was still, “I can make it to see John.”

There was no mistake now, especially after tonight’s lesson that it was John and not the martial arts that were offering such solace to his mind. Tom, while skilled and patient with his inexperienced student, made no impact on the state of his mind. There had been a moment when Sherlock walked in the door, when their eyes had met and he had felt the frantic action tone down. But the news that Tom would be running the class, that he would more or less have no interaction with John this evening, made him deflate like a punctured balloon. It had been a good experiment, he had tried to convince himself, to see if it was the training or John, but he had known the answer before they had even begun. That knowledge had made things awkward again, their conversation stilted and punctuated with silences after the lesson. He had been nervous, unable to turn off the corner of him mind that kept reminding him that John had rejected his help once, and he may not appreciate arriving at Baker Street to find that Sherlock had acquired the services of a remedial massage therapist without his consent. That John had noticed, and mentioned it even, was a shock. Sherlock had been so busy trying to hide his own nerves, and calm his mind as best he could, that he had barely noticed John during the lesson. John, however, had clearly been watching him, and not just watching, but observing and making deductions based on those observations. Part of Sherlock was impressed at his ability to do so – most people were so stupid. The rest was a little terrified. What if John brought up the handshake from Tuesday night, or any of the other odd moments they had shared? In some ways, this would be better, relieving Sherlock of the responsibility and the risk. On the other hand, should he chose to act, he would be more likely to be in control. As much as you could be in control of a situation involving another person so fundamentally.

+++

After about an hour, Sherlock heard the door to the upstairs space opening, and two sets of footsteps descended the stairs (John first, feeling relaxed and calm; Zeph afterwards, carrying his folding table and bag). John walked into the room, a relaxed smile on his face. Zeph merely poked his head in, waved a hand at Sherlock and left. Returning the wave, Sherlock turned his attention to John. He didn’t speak, merely raising an eyebrow.

“That,” John said, pulling the borrowed robe around him and leaning on the chair opposite Sherlock, “may have been the best experience of my life.” Sherlock smiled a hesitant smile, before John grinned, a huge smile splitting his face. “Seriously, that man is magic. And really,” he leaned forward earnestly, “that is one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me. I never would have gotten around to doing it for myself. Thank you for pushing me into it. I needed it.”

Sherlock’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to push you into anything.” He said a little panic showing at the edges of his voice.

John rolled his eyes, apparently so relaxed that he couldn’t get mad if he wanted to. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, listen to me! I’m thanking you. I needed to be pushed. And if you didn’t think bringing me here under false pretenses, having the guy here already and, I suspect, having already paid for him,” Sherlock tilted his head to indicate yes, he had, “was pushing me into it, I’d hate to see you push on purpose!”

His tone was amused, and Sherlock realised the truth of his words. “You’re welcome, then.” He replied, and John nodded, satisfied. “So your shoulder feels better?” Sherlock ventured, still looking for confirmation that this had been a success.

“Feels good now, but Zeph said it would be sore tomorrow. He did some pretty deep stuff, which will be good long term.” John expanded.

Sherlock nodded, though he still felt a little uncertain. “Would a regular appointment be beneficial?” He asked.

John looked sharply at him. “Probably, why?” Before Sherlock could answer, he continued, “Oh, no you don’t, I can manage to arrange another appointment without you luring me up here,” John protested.

Sherlock, irritated and a little embarrassed that he had been so transparent, snapped, “You couldn’t last time, that’s why we’re here.” John stared for a second, and then burst out laughing. Sherlock was a second behind, and they were both laughing at the idiocy of the argument.

“You’re right, I should book him again.” John admitted. He frowned. “I don’t have any way of contacting him.” He looked at Sherlock, who was doing his best to look innocent. The penny dropped after a moment, and John leaned forward to swat at Sherlock, a comfortable and familiar gesture that seemed completely natural. “You bastard, you’ve paid for another already haven’t you?”

Sherlock grinned and nodded as John shook his head at himself. “Fell for it.” He muttered lightly, and then stood.

“I’m for a shower, maybe you could organize dinner in the mean time?”

Sherlock nodded, standing to show John to the bathroom. “Spare towels over there,” he said pointing to the cupboard as John grabbed his bag.

“Cheers,” John said, closing the door. A moment later the water started running and Sherlock busied himself deciding on dinner to avoid the mental image of John in the shower. He hadn’t asked what John wanted to eat, so he decided on Chinese, ordering the same thing John had ordered last week. Sitting down, he closed his eyes, the sound of the water and the knowledge that John was here, in his flat, soothing him. His mind slowed, calmed like it had not since the case started, and he made himself sit up before he fell asleep. Drawing his mind away from work, Sherlock focused on John. With a calm mind, he sorted through his mind palace, reinforcing the ideas he had been toying with. It was time that he and John talked, at the very least. John would be relaxed after his massage and dinner, they were both calm, rational adults. A civilized conversation was all they needed.

+++

The Chinese arrived just as John emerged from the bathroom, hair tousled and wet so that Sherlock had to restrain himself from crossing the room and running his hands through it. Goodness, his imagination had really gone to town now that his mind was clear and he had realised what it was he desired from John. He could picture himself pressing John against the wall and licking the droplets of water from his hairline, tasting the shower gel and inhaling the scent of his own shampoo. His mind supplied images of them curled around each other in bed, writhing together on Sherlock’s chair…He shook his head to clear it, and raised his eyes to meet John’s. He was standing in the bathroom door still, looking amusedly at Sherlock.

“You okay?” he said lightly, placing his bag at the door and sniffing appreciatively at the meal sitting on the table.

“Same as last week, you remembered,” John smiled.

Sherlock replied, “I always remember.” They sat, Sherlock offering John chopsticks and a fork.

John gave him an amused, slightly offended look and grabbed the chopsticks. He hesitated before eating, asking half-jokingly, “There hasn’t been anything dead and human on this plate, has there Sherlock?”

“Not this week,” Sherlock replied deadpan, and John grinned, before tucking in. They ate in silence for a while, Sherlock much more slowly than John as he watched John, wondering how best to start this conversation.

Finally John realised, asking, “What?” through a mouthful of Kung Pao Chicken. Sherlock shrugged, looking down at his own meal. John thought for a moment, chopsticks in midair, then carefully placed them down and looked squarely at Sherlock. He didn’t speak for a moment until Sherlock looked at him. Neither broke the silence, which quickly became thick and sweet like honey, again, drawing Sherlock in.

+++

“You feel it, don’t you?” John asked, very quietly, despite the sound of his thudding heart. Sherlock nodded, not breaking their gaze. John raised his hand off the table and hesitated, and he was relieved that despite the tension, his hand was rock steady. Slowly, he moved his hand across the gap, gently placing it over Sherlock’s, palm cupping his knuckles, fingertips resting on the back of his wrist. John heard Sherlock’s ragged inhalation even over the sound of his own. The contact points were like fire, crackling with life and energy, though they had not shifted against each other. John could see Sherlock’s pupils dilate, and was certain his own would mirror the effect, if he could see it. Very slowly, Sherlock turned his hand over without dislodging John’s, until each had their first two fingers on the pulse point of the other. John knew his own heart was pounding, and as his fingers found the spot, he felt Sherlock’s racing too, in the rapid flutter of the contracting veins under his fingers. John swallowed hard, and Sherlock slowly withdrew his hand, flexing and grasping at the air. John’s hand did the same as he drew it back into his lap. Neither had spoken, nor had they broken their gaze for the minutes since they had touched, yet John had found many of his fears eased by the moment. Sherlock was accepting if cautious of his advance, and he was clearly as affected as John by the atmosphere between them. Despite his hesitations, John felt that this might be something worth pursuing, however carefully. 

“I have no basis of experience for this current situation.” Sherlock said quietly, and John recognized this part of their previous conversation immediately.

He paused before replying, “Honesty is the best policy, in my experience.” He struggled to appear calm, emotions running riot through his body.

Sherlock nodded before speaking again. “Tonight was evidence for the hypothesis on which I have been working.” John lifted one eyebrow and waited for the rest of the speech. “Tom is a competent instructor; however his lesson did not clear my mind as it does when you teach, John. I believe it is you, not the lessons that have the effect.” Sherlock watched John carefully as he spoke, seeking for anything that indicated a negative reaction.

John controlled his face carefully, nodding slowly. “I think you’re probably right.” He agreed, and then smiled at Sherlock, hoping to calm both of their fears. Time for him to offer something of himself, as Sherlock had just done. “You affect me too, Sherlock,” he explained. Sherlock frowned at this.

“In what way?” He asked, and John blinked, then looked down at his hands, flexing his hand absently as he did when making a decision. Deliberately, John stood, and walked the two steps around the small table to where Sherlock sat, watching him. For a long moment John stood there, close but not touching Sherlock, waiting for Sherlock to accept the overture, to make his own declaration. Pushing at the table, Sherlock stood, and then leaned his hips against the edge, negating much of their height difference. John’s heart thudded even louder as he realised Sherlock was, indeed, accepting what he was offering. They were so close now that they were breathing the same air, the gentle movement of the air currents brushing across their skin like a caress. John’s eyes had not left Sherlock’s, and now he stepped forward into the space between Sherlock’s feet, bringing their bodies close. John’s hand slid onto Sherlock’s waist, the other running along the sharp contour of his jawline, the roughness of his stubble thrilling John’s palm. He felt Sherlock shudder at the touch even as his own hands gripped at John’s hips. The moment seemed to last forever as their eyes were locked, four pupils dilated, four eyelids half closed as their lips edged closer together. Finally, with infinite care, John’s thumb traced Sherlock’s lower lip, sliding out of the way only to be replaced by John’s mouth. Their lips melted together as though made for each other, fitting like puzzle pieces. John felt the shock of intensity from their contact move through his body with shocking speed, making his fingers tingle and tighten reflexively where they were now buried in Sherlock’s hair. A deep moan came from Sherlock at this, answered by John’s own gasp of pleasure. Their mouths moved slowly, exploring and tasting each other, the gentle sensation more a relief than lust after so much waiting. A slow burn of desire was simmering, rolling through his body in patches of heat as Sherlock’s fingers dug into his hips and John’s arms tightened around Sherlock’s shoulder and back. John was dazed, incredulous that one small point of skin on skin contact could affect his whole body to such an extent. Medically he knew that lips were sensitive, but after this, he felt like he could map the exact contours of Sherlock’s mouth using only his lips. Sherlock was enthusiastic, though clearly an inexperienced kisser; John felt that he could rectify that by kissing him for the rest of his life. Long lines of sensation, hot and sharp like electricity, were shooting through John’s body, several settling in his groin, where he felt himself growing hard. Sherlock moaned again, and John took the opportunity to run his tongue along the inner softness of Sherlock’s lip, then further. Again a moan escaped Sherlock, and John found Sherlock’s tongue with his own. Sherlock quickly reciprocated, tasting at John tongue and lips, the sensation making John’s breath catch and his fingers tighten. He shifted, trying to move his body closer to Sherlock, easing the awkward pressure on his groin. When a gasp shot out of Sherlock’s mouth, and John felt the same surge through his body, he belatedly recognized the hardness against which he was pressed was Sherlock, as hard as he and clearly just as sensitive. The sensation between them was changing from the gentle exploration to a more wanting, bold experience, and John knew that soon things would spiral to the point at which neither of them might have the courage to put a pause on things.

With supreme effort of self-control, John gently slid his mouth off Sherlock, stepping back, out of the kiss but still within the circle of Sherlock’s arms. John’s hands were on Sherlock’s chest, the thin shirt no barrier for the heat between them. They stood for a moment, Sherlock’s eyes still closed, breathing hard, foreheads touching. John felt elated, the soft drunken pleasure that came from a really good snog. He was watching Sherlock’s face as his eyes opened, the irises all but gone for the width of his pupils. He seemed disoriented for a moment, lips full and parted, then his eyes locked on John’s and he smiled shyly.

“That was…” He hesitated, searching, and John smiled an understanding smile.

“I know.” He replied, moving backwards and rolling his shoulder, more out of habit than anything. The movement sent up a cloud of scent, and he finally realised…

“Can I smell Tiger Balm?” John asked suddenly, identifying the familiar smell.

“What?” Sherlock asked, disconcerted by the change of topic, before he replied, “Of course, Zeph brought it specifically. I assume you use it because it is effective so I asked him to bring the same.”

John frowned a little, confused. “How did you know that’s what I use?” He asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with impatience, though it was tempered with something softer. “I could smell some of the components; I simply went to Chinatown and smelled warming oils until I found the right one.” Sherlock explained defensively.

John looked stunned, then amused. “Of course you did.” He murmured to himself, gently disentangling his body, turning towards the door and picking up his bag.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, shifting just enough to the edge of the kitchen so he could still see John.

“It’s late, you’re exhausted, I have an early morning again, and I think some space right now would be good for both of us before we rush into…anything.” John said, and he could see the disappointment on Sherlock’s face.

“There’s no rush, Sherlock. We have plenty of time. And I think we should talk before anything else happens.” He said carefully, not wanting to hurt Sherlock’s feelings but knowing they really did need to have a proper conversation before things progressed any further. No relationship he had ever had that started with a physical connection and a tumble into bed had ever ended well. The very idea of things ending, of not seeing Sherlock, felt wrong, and John was determined to keep his libido in check for long enough to make sure he and Sherlock were on the same page. John knew he had stuff that needed to be said, and he knew that there were things he needed to know about Sherlock, about the way he thought and felt, before they let themselves tumble into this. Difficult as it was, he had to leave now or he would be sorely tempting fate.

“I’m meeting Greg at the pub tomorrow night, do you want to meet us there?” John offered, not really thinking it was Sherlock’s cup of tea, but offering all the same. Sherlock’s look of distaste was all the answer he needed, so John hasty added,

“Or we could meet on Sunday, if you like?” Sherlock nodded, obviously pleased at the alternative. They could figure out the details later.

“How is your head?” John asked quietly, not wanting to leave until he was satisfied Sherlock would be okay.

Sherlock considered, and then smiled a broad grin. He spoke with an intensity that seared into John’s mind. “I think kissing is better than anything for quieting my mind, John.” His voice was almost a purr, deep and visceral, and even from across the room, John felt his skin flush, his halfhearted erection making itself painfully known once again. He swallowed and could see that Sherlock had noticed.

“I expect you’ll sleep well, then.” John said, “As will I.”

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock did not move from the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the bench as John raised a hand in farewell before disappearing down the staircase.


	19. Ju ku/Yeol a-hop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember when John asked Greg if he wanted to meet at the pub for a quiet pint and a match?

_John’s hands moved in slow motion over Sherlock’s skin, as white and creamy as marble. It was neither warm nor cool, but the same temperature as his hands; despite this, he could see goosebumps rising in the trail of his touch, and it fascinated him. As he slid his palm and watched the skin change, Sherlock’s torso writhed beneath him, silently begging him to taste all the places he had dreamed about. John groaned, fingertips tingling at the touch of that skin, and he lowered his head to taste just the smallest sample…_

John had slept well, despite the graphic nature of his dreams. He dropped like a stone as soon as he arrived home and didn’t surface until after 7, a sleep in by his military driven sleeping habits. His first class wasn’t until 9, so he allowed himself a few moments to relive the kiss from the night before. It had been a risk, more so in hindsight, but in the intensity of the moment all he could see was Sherlock, as breathless and enflamed as he himself. This was not a case of him chasing a moderately _interested_ student for a date, or even chatting up someone at a bar; this was mutual, and it had taken all this time for him to really see that Sherlock was just as lost as he, though perhaps less experienced in such matters. He had maintained enough control to stop, to wait for Sherlock to reassure him that he wanted this, too. This, along with that moment in which they had taken each other’s pulse, confirmed it for John. God, that moment was possibly the hottest non-sex moment of his life. It had felt so intimate; feeling the flutter of Sherlock’s heart as he knew Sherlock could feel his, all while his eyes had been locked on that swirl of oceanic colour in Sherlock’s eyes. One thing was for certain – wherever this lead, it was going to be one hell of a ride, and John Watson couldn’t wait to experience it.

+++

Now, waiting for Greg in the pub, John shifted his shoulder. He’d been quite conscious of it all day, the aches from last night’s treatment making it not quite sore, but a constant presence in his sense of self. Zeph had watched him roll his shoulder and immediately made him promise to stop, explaining how it was aggravating his strained labrum and bicep tendon every time. He’d shown John a different motion that would help ease the stiffness without stressing the tendon, and John had been practicing, hoping to replace one habit with the other as soon as possible. He wondered when he would see Zeph again and realised Sherlock had not told him when that would be, or where, for that matter. Just as he took out his phone to ask Sherlock before he forgot, Greg arrived, waving from the bar and miming a drink. John raised his own pint, and Greg nodded, ordering for himself before wending across the room to join John in the comfy chairs at the back.

“Alright?” Greg said.

John nodded, half rising as he shook Greg’s hand. “I would have got you a pint in if I’d known what you were drinking, sorry,” John apologized.

Greg raised his larger to John, who drank from his in return. They both looked to the football for a moment, orienting themselves with the game and situation, before Greg continued the conversation. “I though the first round was meant to be on me?” Greg asked.

“That’s true enough.” John replied.

Lestrade slid a sideways look at John as he said, “Pretty sure it was in return for tips in dealing with Sherlock.” Greg watched the flush rise up John’s face with interest, and John resolutely kept his attention on the TV, ignoring the chuckle Greg gave when he realised what John was doing. They watched the game for a while, commenting on the teams and league in general, before it was Greg’s shout.

As he returned with their drinks, Greg said, “Right-o, John, what’s with Sherlock? He’s a different person with you than I’ve seen with anybody.”

John sipped his drink and looked at Greg, judging how drunk he was and how drunk Greg was, before he said less carefully than if he’d been completely sober, “Maybe that’s because I’m a different person with him than anybody else is.”

Greg stared for a moment, then said, “What?”

In for a penny, John thought, hoping this didn’t go tits up. “Have you noticed how people treat him, Greg? As soon as he walks in, Donovan sneers, Anderson glares, even the others roll their eyes. He can’t open his mouth without people getting irritated, sarcastic, dismissive…” John shrugged. “The first class he came to, I offered to help him, and he looked at me like I was from outer space. Have you ever looked at him stand off to the side of that class? I mean really look at his face, at how he’s standing. He doesn’t have a regular social skill in his body, Greg, he had no idea how to do small talk or pretend to be interested in something he’s not. He looks like he’s arrogant but he’s uncomfortable, not surprising too given the treatment he gets from your lot.” John realised he should stop, but he couldn’t, he had to get it all out. “And the deductions,” he continued, “I have no idea where this came from but it’s the only way he thinks he’s valuable, by being clever. He doesn’t do a social nicety, that’s the only thing he knows how to do to talk to people. And most people don’t see that, they don’t see how brilliant it is, they just say, ‘piss off’.” John stopped, then drank down half his pint in embarrassment.

Greg was looking at him speculatively, digesting what he had said. A finger lifted from Greg’s pint, pointing at John, and he said conclusively, “You’re shagging him, aren’t you?”

John almost choked on his beer at this. Greg had ignored all the accusations, all the inflammatory comments and dug right to the underlying emotion. Shit, John thought. This could get sticky in an entirely different way. He finished his pint before answering. “No.” John said, belatedly, and Greg looked entirely unconvinced, so John added with a sigh, “Not yet.”

Greg practically leapt up, a triumphant crow calling attention from all over the bar. John flushed, Greg raised one hand in apology to the bar in general, then turned to John with a predatory glint in his eye. “I’ll forget all the crap you just spouted, just spill.” He said, and John sat up, though he had to wait while Greg headed to the bar for another round first.

“Firstly, it wasn’t crap, and you know it,” he called Greg out, looking at him severely. “I know it wasn’t the most diplomatic thing I’ve ever said, but it’s true – he’s so used to people treating him badly that he acts up to it now. He’s not the most tactful person, I know,” he raised a hand to acknowledge the general protests coming from Greg, “but he’s not as bad as you all make out, and a bit of understanding would go a long way, you know.” Greg shrugged, though John could see he would think about it. John decided to leave it for now. The seed had been planted, it would be up to Greg to make a change, if it could be at all. John fervently hoped so, for all their sakes. “Anyway, that’s my two bob worth in exchange for the pint, so thanks,” he said, draining his fast and heading to the bar. He returned with his round and the watched the game again, before remembering a little fuzzily that he was meant to ask Sherlock when his next appointment with Zeph was booked. He took out his phone and sent a quick message.

 

_9.04pm_

_Did you really make another appointment for me with Zeph? When and where? JHW_

 

Greg made kissy noises at him without looking away from the screen, and John swiped good naturedly at his arm.

“Seriously, what’s the go there?” Greg asked.

John shrugged, watching the game. After a moment he said, “There’s something there, dunno what yet, though,” John said, noticing he was slurring his words a bit. Might do to slow down on the beers, he thought.

“Any action?” Greg asked, a shade too casually. John raised his eyebrows, looking at Greg until the other man looked at him.

“What?” Greg asked.

“You’re an old woman for gossip, Gregory.” John chided him.

Greg sighed, “That’s what my ex-wife used to say.”

“Wife?” John couldn’t help asking. He hadn’t pegged Greg that way.

Greg shrugged. “I’m not that choosey, when it comes to partners,” he admitted, “Men or women, I mean. Wouldn’t go for him, though,” he said in an undertone, pointing at a very young, chubby blond leaning against the bar, tight jeans and torn t-shirt making the legality of the scotch at his elbow questionable. John giggled, and the both lost it for a few moments in the silliness of the moment.

“You should card him,” John choked out.

Greg managed to reply, “Not my division!” before they both descended into helpless giggles again. John’s phone chimed, and he saw a reply from Sherlock. As they conversed, Greg disappeared, returning with double Scotches for them both. John gave him a reproachful stare, but still started drinking with him.

 

_9.34pm_

_I meant to give you his details so you could work out a mutually convenient time. Apologies. SH_

A contact was attached, featuring Zeph’s name and phone number. John replied,

 

_ThanKs. Greg says HII._

 

The reply was instant.

 

_Who is Greg? Are you drinking? SH_

 

John rolled his eyes.

 

_Greg Lestrade. Yes, we areat the pub, remember? Football aNd a pint._

_I doubt Lestrade would have asked you to pass on his greetings. SH_

_What can you possibly have to talk about? SH_

_WHo do you think?_

_Me? SH_

 

_All good, I seear._

_Swer._

_S w e a r. Maybe i should step drunkng._

_Yes, I think that would be wise. I am not comfortable with you discussing us with Lestrade, John. SH_

_I Dont kiss and tel, Sherlwvjod._

_You didn’t even make an effort to spell my name correctly, John. Shall I have Mycroft send a car for you both?_

 

_No no, we are not DONe. Soooon I pramis.e_

_Please contact me when you arrive safely home. SH_

 

John sighed and downed the last of his Scotch.

Greg mimicked the gesture, then leaned a little unsteadily forward and said, “So not much action?” and wiggled his eyebrows theatrically.

John giggled drunkenly, then whispered loudly, “he’s an amazing snog.” He threw his hands up dramatically, saying, “I’m not saying anything more. Nothing, I swear.”

Greg sat back and sighed, then straightened. “We should go out.” He declared as though this was the most brilliant idea in the world.

“We are out, Greg.”

“No no I know this place…” he prattled on as John looked back at his phone, concentrating hard on spelling correctly.

 

_10.17pm_

_John? SH_

_Of course. I don’t want you to worry about me, Sherlock._

_I would prefer not to have to call Mycroft to rescue from you from jail, John. SH_

_We’re FINE. Did you know Greg is gay?_

_Of course. SH_

_Really._  


_Yes, I deduced it ages ago. He’s bisexual, actually. SH_

_Wow. You’re good._

_Not I’m not, he tried to chat me up. SH_

_WHAT? When did that happen?_

_A long time ago, it’s not important. SH_

_Yes, it is._

_I rejected him, obviously. SH_

_Go home, John, get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. SH_

_Okay._

John closed his phone, then looked at Lestrade, feeling happy and carefree as only too much beer could do to him. “Let’s go!” He said, having heard nothing Greg had said. They weaved out of the bar, arms around each other singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

_3.47am_

_Nigh Shlok. Love you._


	20. Ni ju/ Su mul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before. Sparkles and beer and Mycroft, oh my!

John groaned as he rolled over, his head pounding. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry and felt like something may have actually died in there. Struggling to sit up, John realised that wouldn’t be happening for a good while. A pounding in his head and general sense of being hit by a passing bus reinforced that impression. He cracked one eye experimentally, and saw a pint of water, two aspirins and a note propped up on his bed side table. Frowning, John reached over, wincing as he focused his eyes to read the few words written there. The elegant script had been penned on heavy card stock, with a fountain pen, he thought.

_John,_

_I suggested you drink this when we arrived last night, however you fell asleep before you were able. I would recommend you take in both the water and aspirin at your earliest opportunity._

_Regards,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

Mycroft? John blinked stupidly, his brain working slowly as he tried to comprehend this note. Mycroft had been here, probably last night…Last night, when he and Greg had started drinking. Then… then Greg had had that great idea to go out. Flashes of memory, sparkly skin, strobe lights, bodies dancing together…staggering down the street with Greg. The flashes coalesced into a dim chain of events. Black car pulling up beside them, Mycroft looking disproving as he invited them in. The disproving look on Mycroft’s face had been replaced by alarm when Greg had tugged at his arm, trying to convince him to get out and join them, before John had fallen against Greg, toppling them into the car. The giggles that had overcome both Greg and John, to which Mycroft had appeared completely immune. Mycroft had had to help John into his flat, evidently, and had tried to get John to help himself before he passed out, fully dressed across his bed.

John wiped one hand across his face as he downed the water and the aspirin. He was not as young as he once was and it would take him a week to fully recover. Until then, he could hibernate for a while before his afternoon training sessions. Taking a deep breath, John stood up and made his way to the bathroom, eyes half closed against the unreasonably bright light coming into his flat. His head was swimming, and it occurred to him, after he had relieved himself and was making his way unsteadily back down the corridor to bed, that afternoon classes may not be a great idea.

He grabbed his phone and sent a quick apology to Tom, who could run the class in his absence. There was no way he was going to admit what he had actually done (not that he really knew), so a quick white lie was necessary. Just as John was preparing to go back to sleep, his phone rang. Debating whether he should just leave it or not, John swore quietly before picking it up. Unknown number. Knowing that nothing good ever came from answering such calls did not prevent John from picking up, and he felt annoyed at himself when he answered, “Hello?”

“John. I am pleased to see you’re with the land of the living once again.”

“Mycroft?”

“I trust you followed my advice and took the aspirin. I understand it is excellent for hangovers.”

“Yeah, thanks.” John paused. “Listen, what exactly…” he trailed off.

Mycroft filled the silence that formed. “I will send a car, John. I would prefer not to have such a conversation over an unsecured line. I assume twenty minutes will be sufficient?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I’ll wait out the front.”

“Excellent. I will see you shortly, then.” John sat forward a little, then looked at the time on his phone. 12.53pm. Mycroft’s car would be here in 20 minutes. He had time for a shower, which was absolutely necessary, but the sleep would have to wait. Heaving a sigh, John tried to find a balance between speed and care for his still aching body. Hopefully, Mycroft would have the forethought to make some coffee, John thought grumpily as he ran the shower.

+++

Mycroft did have the forethought for coffee, as it turned out. In fact, they were meeting at Mycroft’s club, in a private dining room in which a full English was waiting for John, along with coffee, tea and juice. The smell assailed him as he entered, and his attention was completely diverted from greeting his host by the mouthwatering anticipation.

“Thank you for joining me, John.” Mycroft said smoothly, and John turned back at the sound of his voice.

“Did I have a choice?” John asked wryly, not waiting to be asked to sit. Mycroft clearly expected him to eat, so he was going to eat. There was no way he would cringe at the (blurry) memories of last night, or defer to him just because Mycroft was clearly more educated and well off than John.

“Thanks for this,” John said casually, determined to meet Mycroft on as equal a ground as he could manage, despite the private car, meal and the fact that John had no idea what he was doing here. When Mycroft, seemingly a little put off by John’s familiarity, joined John at the table, John looked up at him. He sat almost primly, pouring himself tea but ignoring the meal. The silence stretched on as John ate. He figured he might not like what Mycroft had to say, so he might as well eat, then if he had to leave in a hurry at least he’d have a full stomach to show for it.

Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat. “How are you feeling after last night?” He asked.

John, mouth full of bacon, shrugged, then swallowed. “Older than I’d like to admit,” he said, “but this is helping.” He indicated the meal in front of him, then added, “And the aspirin – thanks for your help last night, by the way.” Mycroft incline his head, a small frown on his face. John stilled when he saw it, confusion crossing his mind before he realised.

“You want to know why I’m not asking what happened, aren’t you?” he asked.

Mycroft paused. “I would be surprised if you had a comprehensive memory of the events, yes.” He answered primly.

John shrugged again. “Of course not. I assume that if I had been injured you wouldn’t have dropped me home, and I appear okay, so I’m chalking it up to another night with too much to drink, and memories I’ll never get back.” He took a sip of his coffee. God, it was excellent. “Not my favourite part of drinking beer, but I’m not a kid, there’s nothing I can do about it.” John said, partly in truth, partly to rile Mycroft, who appeared to have engineered this meeting just to scold John for his poor behaviour the night before. He wasn’t John’s father, or older brother, so what business was it of his? John realised he was in an argumentative mood, but hangovers tended to do that to him.

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “When I picked you and Gregory off the street,” he said, making it sound as though they had been living on a street corner, “you had spent the better part of two hours at Flex. You had arrived from there after a previous two hours at RainbowWonderland.” John blinked, and Mycroft sat back in his chair, examining the reaction to his revelation.

“Flex? And RainbowWonderland? Aren’t they…” he trailed off, wondering if the names he was thinking could possibly be the places he and Greg had visited. There had been that conversation earlier, at the pub; Greg knew he was interested in men (or Sherlock, at least), but he must have been too far gone to realise that the clubs were both…

“Clubs catering to men interested in men, yes.” Mycroft answered, finishing John’s question.

John stared at him for a moment, then regained his composure and took the last bite of his breakfast. Or lunch, whatever. “So?” He asked, wondering if Mycroft was about to give him the ‘stay away from my brother, you homosexual deviant’ conversation. That lead to the next question, which was - would John actually hit Mycroft, or just walk out?

It was proved moot when Mycroft opened his mouth to say, “I have been watching you and Sherlock, John. I believe that you and he are,” he coughed delicately, “exploring the possibility of engaging in a relationship.”

John was speechless, before he broke into laughter. “I beg your pardon?” He asked, still chuckling, “did you say, ‘exploring the possibility of engaging in a relationship?’” The phrasing was hilarious.

Mycroft looked witheringly at him, before saying quietly, “Sherlock has never, to my knowledge, engaged in a personal relationship with any person.”

John stopped laughing as he realised what Mycroft was saying. “What, never?” He asked, then frowned.

Mycroft clarified, “I believe he has engaged in sexual relationships, however a romantic attachment has never occurred.”

John was both interested and slightly repulsed by the conversation. “Why are you telling me this, Mycroft?” He asked. The whole thing was so bizarre that a motive was completely beyond him. Mycroft hesitated, and John prompted, “Spit it out, Mycroft.”

With a disapproving look, Mycroft spoke as though pained. ”Sherlock’s heart is not easily reached, John.” He paused, then went on, “If you have indeed touched his heart, you must be careful.” John just looked blankly at Mycroft, who concluded with, “I am concerned that your behaviour last night with Greg might be…misconstrued.”

A long pause, then John said dismissively, “Oh for God’s sake, Mycroft, we’re mates! Not shagging at all, if it’s any of your business.”

“I am Sherlock’s older brother, John, I feel it is my responsibility…”

“To use public CCTV cameras to stalk your brother’s potential partner and question his behaviours? Sherlock is a grown up, Mycroft, and outwardly at least, so are you. If you have concerns about him, talk to him about it. I don’t want to know anything that he isn’t willing to tell me and if that’s a problem, then it’s between me and him, not you.”

“If things don’t go well and he gets hurt,” Mycroft paused as though the very idea would be beyond his delicate sensibilities to proclaim, finally finishing with, “That would not be in your best interests, John.”

John snorted, before retorting, “Don’t threaten me, Mycroft, I think we’d both find that embarrassing.”

Without another word, John wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin, stood up and left, closing the door quietly behind him. He remembered the way out, a throwback to his time in Afghanistan, where getting out was as important as getting in. Once he reached the curb, however, John realised that he had no idea where he was. Hos head was still a little fuzzy, and more sleep was definitely on the cards. Just as he was trying to decide which way was the best street for him to find a taxi, one of Mycroft’s sleek black cars pulled up, and the driver jumped out.

“I’m to take you home, Dr. Watson.” The driver said, opening the rear door for him. John shrugged, having no energy to argue, and climbed in the car. As they drove towards his flat, he pulled out his phone, intending to text Sherlock, to see if he was still interested in meeting up later that day. As it was, it was close to 3pm, and John felt a little guilty for calling Sherlock so late. Perhaps a text message would be better, in case he was occupied doing something else? Opening the text function on his phone, the end of the previous conversation automatically displayed.

 

_3.47am_

_Nigh Shlok. Love you._

 

John froze. What on earth? He looked at the time stamp 3.47am, Sunday. He scrolled back, looking at the rest of the conversation, which he mostly remembered having while he and Greg were at the pub. There was the request from Sherlock for John to let him know when he arrived safely home, that must be why John had sent a message at such an hour. But he had absolutely no memory of sending that text, and given that Sherlock had neither replied nor called him so far that day, John did not have any idea how Sherlock would have reacted to such a message. His fingers hovered over the touchscreen as he wondered what to say now. Should he ignore his last message? Make a joke of it? Apologise, even? John wasn’t sure that he loved Sherlock, not yet, but he knew that he cared deeply about him, and regardless of his actual feelings, his text was wildly inappropriate. He was kicking himself for getting so drunk, but what was the best approach now? Stalling as he thought, John called Greg.

“You’d better feel as lousy as me, mate.” Greg answered the phone, clearly having been woken by the call.

“At least you’re still in bed, I’ve been dragged halfway across London, you bastard,” John replied, smiling despite his weariness.

“God, what on earth did we do last night? There must have been a club in there somewhere, I think I’m glittering.” Greg muttered, and John laughed, filling him in on the action according to Mycroft. “You remember all that?” Greg said, groaning to himself.

“Ah, no,” John admitted. “Remember I said I was dragged halfway across London?” Greg grunted so John went on, “Mycroft Holmes picked us up and took us home, well, I assume he took you home. He called me this afternoon and insisted I come out to see him. He told me the last bit, about the clubs.”

Greg grunted, then muttered, “Well that explains it.”

John frowned. “Explains what?”  he asked, and there was a long pause.

“Nothing, doesn’t matter,” Greg answered finally, then asked John, “So, what did Mycroft want?” John gave him the outline of their conversation, steering clear of his belligerent attitude, and Greg snorted with laughter when he related Mycroft’s concern that he and John might have been thought to be a couple.

“Well, you’ve had a busy day, then, all things considered,” Greg said. “Have you heard from Sherlock?”

“No,” John answered, hoping Greg wouldn’t press the issue. He wasn’t willing to share his potentially disastrous drunk text yet, not until he knew how Sherlock had reacted to the message.

“What are you talking to me for?” Greg asked John, amusement in his voice. “Hang up and call him, you daft bastard!” John chuckled, said farewell, and did hang up. He did not, however call Sherlock. He would have to think about what to say first. Perhaps after a little more sleep.


	21. Ni ju ichi/Su mul hana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's weekend reflections, his mind palace - and some empathy from a friend.

Sherlock could not sleep. He hadn’t slept since early Sunday morning, when he had managed a few hours between the end of his conversation with John, and the last message he had sent, apparently as he arrived home. Based on his admission of inebriation earlier in the evening, and the late hour, it was unlikely that he was sober when he sent it; it was then quite likely that he had been drunk enough to have no recollection, and therefore would not even realise it had been sent until he next went to send Sherlock a message. Which should have been yesterday, as they had tentatively agreed to meet. Tentatively agreed to meet, _right after they had kissed that incredible kiss,_ Sherlock corrected himself. While he had been kissed by people in the past, it had never evoked that response from him, or, based on John’s physiological and physical markers, on his partner.

And now John had sent him that message. _Love you_. Sherlock knew that his intoxication had most likely reduced John’s inhibitions, and that knowledge made him less sure of where he stood. Was it likely that John was an affectionate drunk, the kind of person who threw ‘I love you’s around to everyone when he had been drinking? Or was this simply John’s lowered inhibitions allowing him to express his emotions without constraint? Sherlock did not have enough data to come to a reliable conclusion, and the added complexity of his own emotional response to the message was making his head pound. He could not decide how he felt about John’s message, and he had no idea what his reaction was supposed to be, sociologically speaking. Was it expected that he ignore the message, pretending it did not exist unless John mentioned it? Should he make a joke, would that ease any tension or embarrassment on John’s behalf? Societal expectations were difficult, even more so with John. Generally, Sherlock ignored what people expected him to do, as their reactions did not bother him. John, however, meant a lot of something, and Sherlock dare not jeopardize whatever it was by doing the wrong thing. His mind could not settle, however, and the noise and disarray was making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything. This was not a problem he could reason his way out of, and his recent solution in John was not available for this particular puzzle. Sherlock would have to find a way to calm his mind enough to determine the best course of action from here, whatever the cost.

+++

Little as he liked to admit it, Sherlock was cross with John for upsetting the careful balance of his professional life. He had learned to live with the derision of Lestrade’s team during the course of their working together, and most of it rolled off his back. He got his own back by deducing as many embarrassing things as possible, and flinging them back into their faces when he needed to, or when he felt like it, in the case of Anderson. It wasn’t ideal, but it was enough, as long as he had the puzzles. His mind was more important than the approval or admiration of other people, at least he had always thought so. Greg’s drunken voice message, however, had shown Sherlock another side of human nature and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

Having seen it was Lestrade calling, and knowing he was out drinking with John, Sherlock had ignored the call, allowing it to ring out. Annoyingly enough, Lestrade had left a lengthy voice message. Sherlock had been too curious to leave it, as it may have had something to do with John. As it turned out, it was all to do with John.

_“Sherlock, are you there? SHeeeeeerrrrrloooooock…..okay, okay, it’s your voicemail. Look, John’s at the bar and I’m just saying I’ll take care of it all, you don’t have to worry. I’ll make sure everyone leaves you alone now, John told me how much it bothers you and you deserve better than those wankers every time you open your mouth. I’ll talk to Anderson and Donovan and the other ones, what are they called….the short one and the other one you reckon is a kleptomaniac…make sure they stop the names and stuff. You’re a decent bloke Sherlock and we’d be lost without your deductions, we need you around. Okay John is coming back so I gotta go.”_

The quality was terrible, and judging from the music they were at a club of some sort. Lestrades’ voice faded in and out, but Sherlock could make out enough to know exactly what he was saying. John had spoken to him on Sherlock’s behalf, asking Lestrade to make the others stop harassing Sherlock. Worse than that, John had told Lestrade that it bothered Sherlock, when he had said no such thing to John. It wasn’t his favourite thing in all the world, but Sherlock had trained himself to think of it as the price of his mind, this tirade of stupidity from those who simply couldn’t see what he could see. He balanced it out with his own scathing remarks, fighting their fire with fire of his own. But how had John known?

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock took a deep breath and entered his mind palace, turning left into a seldom used wing of the building. He stopped at a door and hesitated before entering. This was where he kept those memories from the first crime scenes he attended. Not those details that pertained to a case; those were arranged in their proper place with the other case-related data he had collected, ready to be perused should a new case require it. No, these memories were all the other things, that couldn’t be deleted due to their proximity to the precious case data. The barbs, the jabs, the cutting remarks; the sneers, snide comments, and snickers as he moved around, reactions to the elation on his face at a murder, forgetting (or perhaps never realising) that this was a real person whom society expected he mourn, however briefly. All the little hurts which at first had bewildered him (didn’t they appreciate his help, his observations?), and then had been endured, before being relegated to this long forgotten corridor of his mind palace, buried beneath years of retorts and comebacks, nasty little secrets kept and brought out at key moments, attack as a form of defence. This was part of a pattern that had dogged Sherlock throughout his life. Mummy and Mycroft had protected him to the best of his ability, but they couldn’t do it forever. A question rose in his mind, and he left the room of memories in his mind palace, closing the door and venturing deeper into this old disused corridor. He opened a door and entered, memories from his first year of university surrounding him. He searched for the right one to answer his question – why had he started sharing his deductions? Mycroft had started it, showing Sherlock how he could know without asking, but when had he first begun showing people what he could do – and why? Suddenly, the memory was there. He had wanted to make a friend, and Mycroft (even then still his confidante) had suggested finding someone with a similar interest. It had not occurred to Sherlock to start a conversation first – surely if he could deduce the answer, that would be impressive? He had waited and observed until he saw a young man who had clearly just come from a fencing class, as Sherlock had. His deduction had not gone well – the girlfriend thought he had been tutoring rather than chatting up his ex, the fencing instructor – and Sherlock had been shouted out of the common room. Bewildered, he had reasoned that it was simply the wrong person. A number of angry reactions and one spectacular black eye later, Sherlock had realised that he may never be liked particularly well, but people were speaking to him, in a way. He was approached to solve people’s problems – where is my boyfriend going at night, why is my friend avoiding me, trivial puzzles, but puzzles nonetheless, occupying his mind as the simplistic chemistry classes could not. He had accepted that, tucking the hurt away with these other difficult memories, accepting that his way would be abrupt and sometimes attacking in order to defend himself. A person to be endured rather than enjoyed.

So why had John, after all this, defended Sherlock? True, Sherlock had never turned that skill of his against John, but again, that was John’s doing. He had been kind to Sherlock, and patient, even when Sherlock had been moody and difficult in that first class. Such consideration was not familiar to Sherlock, and he found it hard to reconcile with his view of other people. He had deduced John and had been told he was brilliant, a unique moment. He had been presumptuous, arranging Zeph to treat John’s shoulder, and John had thanked him. And most surprising of all, he had been himself, more himself than for anybody else, and John had kissed him. All these things kept intruding on his deductive process, and he had no idea what to do about it. Sherlock wondered if he would have to choose between the puzzles and John. And if he did – which would he chose?

+++

As Sherlock was pacing on Monday morning, mind racing, his phone pinged. He stared at it, not wanting to check in case it was John. Why, oh why, had he not changed John’s message alert so he would know if it were him without looking? Hesitantly, Sherlock picked up his phone and looked at the screen. The newest message was displayed there.

 

_10.34am_

_Hi Sherlock, I hope I didn’t keep you awake with my messages on Saturday night. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, but I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night. Hope your head is doing alright. JHW_

 

What on earth did that mean? Was he acknowledging the _love you_? Sherlock assumed that the poor health yesterday was directly related to the drinking, however it was equally possible that John had avoided sending him a message once he realised what that last message did say. Sherlock clutched at his hair in frustration. Not enough data!

+++

“Sherlock?” A soft, tentative voice sounded from the doorway. Sherlock whirled to see a small, mousy woman with a long ponytail and an enormous scarf standing in his doorway.

“Molly.” He said in greeting, and she smiled and stepped inside, unwrapping her scarf.

“I just came to see if you are alright.” She told him, almost apologetic in her manner. He scowled, but she was not deterred.

“I’m fine.” He snapped, and she went on as though he had not spoken.

“Because you missed that thing, the connection between Lawson and Podmore in the last case, and it’s quite unlike you, so…” She trailed off, clearly not having thought out the end of that sentence. Sherlock had resumed his pacing, and he spoke when he next turned towards her, where she stood just inside their doorway.

“Yes, I know, thank you.” He replied sarcastically, with quite a nasty tone. She stood twisting her hands together, looking anxiously at him, and he expanded, “I just, I can’t concentrate!”

She looked concerned. “Are you having headaches, Sherlock?” She stepped forward, despite herself, continuing to ask questions. “Blurry vision? Auras? Hallucinations?”

He turned and made a frustrated noise, alarming her, and he ground out from between clenched teeth, “Every time I try and concentrate, he’s there. Something reminds me of him, or sounds like him, or I imagine what he would say…I can’t make the same connections! I need him to calm my head down, not make it worse!” Molly had watched this entire speech erupt from Sherlock’s mouth, and now saw Sherlock throw himself into his armchair, long legs extending out in front of him, arms hanging off the sides.

“Who’s this?” She asked lightly, though Sherlock detected a note of hurt that he couldn’t explain.

He made no attempt to, simply answering, “John.”

She nodded, then walked carefully across to sit in the chair opposite him, perching right on the edge. “You like him.”

Sherlock’s gaze came up to meet hers. His jiggling leg stilled, and he nodded.

“Is it mutual?” She asked, and again Sherlock nodded in response. Molly looked down at her hands, then up again into Sherlock’s remarkable eyes. “He helps your head,” Molly said carefully.

Sherlock said quietly, “Yes. Better than the puzzles.”

It was Molly’s turn to nod now. She knew how important the work was to Sherlock; he had spent enough time at the morgue over the years. “So why isn’t he helping now, then?” Molly probed, her tone careful. Sherlock groaned, pulling his legs in and tucking them impossibly small under him. Molly frowned, leaning forward. “Something happened and you don’t know what to do.” She stated, and Sherlock nodded a tiny nod of confirmation. For a log moment, Molly looked at Sherlock, before she sighed and reached out, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear. It was an oddly maternal gesture, all things considered. Molly stood up and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock could hear cupboard opening, things banging around, and in a few moments, she brought him a mug of tea. Balancing it on his armrest, she perched once again on the edge of the chair opposite Sherlock before looking earnestly at him.

“You need to be honest, Sherlock,” Molly told him, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the same advice from John. “Whatever happened, whether you did something or he did, call him and tell him what’s going on.” He made no indication he had heard her, and once again Molly sighed. “Are you going to be alright?” He nodded, and she peered at him even as she stood up. “Should I call Mycroft?” She asked.

He shook his head violently, then stood, close to her and spoke quickly and urgently. “You can’t tell anyone about this, Molly. Nobody.” She hesitated, and in the beat of silence he whispered, “Please, Molly.”

In her surprise, Molly nodded in agreement, then squeezed Sherlock’s hand before picking up her scarf and leaving. Sherlock could hear her quick footsteps down the stairs, before the external door opened and closed, leaving him alone in 221b Baker Street to consider his options.


	22. Ni ju ni/Su mul dul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would Sherlock do when faced with a puzzle he can't analyse his way out of, you ask?

In the end, it had taken John having a huge row with a chip and pin machine before he texted Sherlock. He had been so distracted that he had been trying to pay for his groceries with a library card, and the rejection of said card was the last straw. He abandoned his groceries and stormed out, humiliated and frustrated. Without thinking too much, he pulled out his phone, took a deep breath, and sent Sherlock a message.

 

_10.34am_

_Hi Sherlock, I hope I didn’t keep you awake with my messages on Saturday night. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, but I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night. Hope your head is doing alright. JHW_

 

Right, done. John had written and rewritten that message during the hours he had been awake on Sunday (only about three, once he had finally gotten home from his conversation with Mycroft), but it had never seemed right. Should he ignore the message, pretend it did not exist unless Sherlock mentioned it? Should he make a joke to ease any tension? John wished he knew what Sherlock was thinking about it. Finally, the row at Tesco’s made John realise that the only thing worse than a poorly worded message was no message at all. He would go with the ‘just-don’t-mention-it’ plan, waiting until he saw Sherlock in person to explain. Thought exactly what he would say was still beyond him. With any luck, Sherlock would come to class on Tuesday and they would have time afterwards to talk, perhaps over a meal. John’s heart fluttered at the idea, but he pushed it aside. The intensity of that kiss had surprised him, and the depth of emotion he had felt from Sherlock made John realise that this had to either be or not be, a casual fling was out of the question. As much as he hated to admit it, Mycroft’s words also made him pause – had Sherlock really made it to this point in his life without a relationship of any kind? Curiosity aside, John wondered if Sherlock understood how intimate that moment had been, how rare it was to find such a connection. There was no way John was willing to jump into anything more until he had some answers from Sherlock, and had shared some of his own experiences in return.

+++

Come Tuesday, John was so distracted at work that he ended up calling Sarah in after his lunch break and begging off the afternoon. She looked at him curiously, but let him go without comment. John felt a little guilty, though he knew one of the locums had only been intended to stay for the morning and would be glad of the work. He would be worse than useless, just about negligent, and it was better that he go for a run to clear his head before his class. It wasn’t something he did regularly, but the struggle to keep his unfit body moving drove all else out of his mind, at least for that hour or so. Standing under the hot shower when he returned, John did his best to ignore his mind as it played over the whole of last Friday evening, then what he could remember of Saturday night. He reviewed muscle groups (quadriceps, obliques, rectus abdominus, biceps), blood vessel branches (arteries, arterioles, capilleries, venules, veins), and skin layers (epidermis, dermis, hypodermis), but thoughts of Sherlock (Sherlock’s muscles, Sherlock’s blood vessels, Sherlock’s skin) intruded, scattering his mind. John growled with frustration. Perhaps this was what Sherlock had to deal with every day, unrelated ideas crashing through the content on which he was trying to concentrate. John could see how it would drive him to the manic behaviour he had seen on that first Friday at the clinic. Toweling his body dry, John resigned himself to the chaos for another few hours, at least. As his shoulder twanged, warning him not to raise his arm quite so far, John remembered that he should call Zeph to make another appointment. It had been quite thoughtful, if a little presumptuous, thought John, though he was the first to admit that he needed a push now and then. He shot off a quick text to Zeph, asking if he could manage a treatment tomorrow morning, and received almost immediate confirmation. Glad he would be able to tell Sherlock that he’d made the next appointment, John packed his things for the evening’s class and waited impatiently for a reasonable time to leave for the Community Centre.

+++

Sherlock hadn’t shown. John had felt like a kid waiting for Santa, unable to sit still, eyes darting to the door every few seconds. With each new arrival, his heart leapt, then sank once he saw it wasn’t Sherlock. When Tom arrived, John forced himself to face away from the door, having a proper conversation about Sunday’s lessons and the progress of those students planning to grade in a few weeks’ time. When they finished up and he turned to face the group waiting for the class, he was again disappointed not to see Sherlock amongst the students. John’s mind raced for a moment as he wondered what circumstances would have kept him away, but he forced himself to push them aside for the duration of the lesson. His personal life might have made him rubbish at his day job today, but he would not let it happen again. He could think about Sherlock after the lesson was over.

+++

An hour and a half later, John farewelled the last of the students and slung his bag over his shoulder. The high from a good class was already wearing off, being replaced by his worry about Sherlock. He wasn’t the man’s keeper, for goodness sake, but John had not heard from Sherlock since their conversation on Saturday night. Not even a reply to his message yesterday, and now he had missed their lesson tonight. Perhaps there was a case? Greg would know, and at this possible information, John pulled out his phone and sent a message to Greg.

 

_7.17pm_

_Hi Greg, have you spoken to Sherlock lately? Haven’t heard from him since Saturday night, and he missed tonight’s class. JHW_

 

When no reply came immediately, John started walking slowly to the tube station. Should he go around to Baker Street to see if Sherlock was home? He couldn’t decide if that would be too intrusive or not, given how brief their acquaintance had been so far. While he thought about it, John disembarked and walked to street level, only to realise he had arrived at Baker Street. His subconscious had made the decision for him, it seemed, bringing him here whether it was a good idea or not. He walked slowly up Baker Street until he stood in front of the door to 221b. The windows were dark, he saw, and there appeared to be nobody home. It wasn’t late by any standards, but it was dark enough that most people would have turned on a light by now, or the light from a screen would have been visible in what Jon knew where the front rooms of Sherlock’s flat. But it was dark and still as though empty. The ping of his phone startled him, and he squinted to read Greg’s reply to his earlier message.

 

_7.45pm_

_No, no cases. Haven’t seen him. He does that sometimes, disappears. Always turns up again. See you tomorrow. GL_

 

Well that wasn’t great news, John thought to himself. Sherlock wasn’t engrossed in a problem at NSY, so why hadn’t he come to class? He looked at the brass knocker as though it might hold some answers, wondering if he should knock or just let it be. It was only one more day until Wednesday’s class. Sherlock was not bound to come to class on a Tuesday, he had chosen to; Wednesdays, however, were less negotiable. John decided that if Sherlock didn’t come to class on Wednesday he would come to Baker Street and find out what was happening. He didn’t want to crowd Sherlock if he was thinking through things, figuring out where he stood. A small voice in his head reminded him that he had no idea how Sherlock would have responded to his drunken text on Saturday night, and the comment sent his mind into overdrive again, a thousand possibilities, from the magnificent to the disastrous, flying thorough his mind. With a supreme effort, John packed them all away, firmly telling himself that Sherlock was a grown man, perfectly capable of sending a text message if he wanted to contact John. Clinging to that thought, John turned militarily and marched back down Baker Street, unaware that he was being watched from the second story of 221 Baker Street.


	23. Ni ju san/Su mul set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday night, Sherlock should be in class with John. But if he doesn't show, how will John find him?

Wednesday morning John was grim and determined. He’d seen Zeph early, before work, then practically marched into the clinic like he was facing a court martial. He worked solidly all day, seeing patients through lunch, stopping only for a protein bar and yet another coffee before taking walk ins until the very last minute. The steady stream of usual complaints was hardly challenging, but he used all his considerable force of will to keep his focus on the people in front of him rather than the phantom of a man who wasn’t even in the room. When 5pm came, he stood up and stretched, then grabbed his bag and made to leave, knowing he was cutting it fine but not wanting to endure the agony of last night, waiting and watching alone in the dojang.

“John?” Sarah’s voice sounded, and John hesitated, then turned to her.

“Hi, Sarah,” he greeted her, “Just out to a class, you know, that group of coppers I’m doing the self defence course for?”

She nodded, then said hesitantly, “Are you okay? You seemed quite distracted today, and yesterday…” She didn’t need to say that he had been pants at his job and it had been better for everyone that he had taken the afternoon off.

He nodded. “I know, sorry,” he said, not wanting to go into the details, not even knowing what the details really were.

“Look, if you need some time off, Liam was happy to take over yesterday and I’m sure he’d jump at the chance to have a few days in a row if you wanted to have a break.” Sarah said in a rush, and John could see her embarrassment at having to suggest he wasn’t coping. He smiled understandingly at her, hoping to ease her discomfort.

“Thanks, Sarah, that’s really thoughtful,” John said. “I’ll let you know.” She nodded awkwardly, then disappeared back into her office. John turned and bolted, now knowing that he would almost certainly be late to class now. He sent a quick message to Greg, apologizing and assuring him that it would only be five minutes, then pushed his way to the front of the crowd to ensure he made it on the next train. He jogged from the station to the Community Centre, so busy thinking about what on earth they were going to work on this week that he had forgotten to be nervous about seeing Sherlock again until he was walking down the corridor to the dojang. He bowed at the door, before greeting the group waiting.

“Hi, sorry I’m late.” John panted, raising a hand. Everyone was there, he saw. Everyone except Sherlock. This fact occupied his mind for a moment, a shiver of discord running up his spine. Sherlock would never skip a class and jeopardize his chance of accessing a crime scene, John knew. Sherlock needed either the puzzles or the training, maybe both, but never neither. John dropped his bag then walked over to the group, still thinking about Sherlock. It wasn’t until he drew near that he focused clearly on their faces. Greg had raised a hand when he entered, and he looked relatively normal, if a little exasperated, John thought. Anderson and Donovan looked angry, upset, and the sneer on Anderson’s face was wiped only when John was visibly surprised to see such an expression directed at him. The rest of the group looked a little sheepish, a little upset, a little embarrassed. John took all this in before he said quietly,

“I’m assuming Greg took this opportunity without Sherlock around to have a chat about him with you all.” He looked at each face, the flushes on everybody’s cheeks confirming it.

“Hopefully you’ve taken what he said on board,” John said, “Because you’re not in school anymore, you’re meant to be professionals, and before that, grownups.” He stopped, not wanting to overshadow whatever it was that Greg had said, and so he clapped his hands together and said, “Let’s begin, shall we?”

The class started gloomy again, though it went smoothly. John was grateful that he had run this type of course so many times, as he pretty much just made it up as he went along, picking techniques out of the air, asking the others to come up with situations they thought might be likely and playing with ideas of how to subdue their attacker. It went surprisingly well, the small groups working together and debating ideas productively, John chipping in with his anatomical and professional knowledge here and there. Overall, they all finished the lesson feeling good, and John had enjoyed the time. In the back of his mind however, Sherlock’s absence was a sharp thorn, prodding him each time he turned and didn’t see the dark curls over the slim body. He worked hard to concentrate, wanting to give the class his full attention despite his worry. After they had finished with a simple bow, however, he made a beeline for Greg.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing his water bottle for something to play with. Greg incline his head as he drank from his own bottle. “Hope I didn’t step on your toes earlier, I’m glad you spoke to everyone. How do you think they took it?” The rest of the group was gone already, having grabbed their things and bolted as soon as possible after the lesson, embarrassed or angry, John didn’t really care.

Greg shrugged, pulling on his jumper over the t shirt he had under his gi. “Seemed to be okay. Anderson and Donovan will take a bit of time to come around, but with any luck they’ll shup up for long enough for Sherlock to realise they’re making an effort, then if he makes an effort too, it might all come good. I mean, they’re never going to be best mates, but…”

Greg let his voice trail off, and John nodded. A bubble of nerves rose in his chest as he asked, “Listen, do you know where Sherlock was tonight?”

Greg frowned. “Have you still not heard from him?” His look cleared a bit, turning teasing. “Please tell me you called him on Sunday. After that conversation on Saturday, surely he’d pick up!” Greg’s smile dimmed as he studied John’s face, red and stony. John sighed. There was nothing for it, he had to tell Greg what had happened, or he wouldn’t understand why John was so anxious. Wordlessly, he took out his phone and brought up the last conversation they had had, on Saturday night, and gave it to Greg to read. While he silently moved his lips, reading the discourse, John changed into his street clothes, not bothering to fold his gi. He felt wired and apprehensive; knowing that something was off, and the tension building in Greg’s shoulders and he clearly reached the end of the messages only confirmed it.

“Bloody hell, why did you send that?” Greg said and although he hadn’t indicated a specific message, John knew what he was talking about.

“Some git was buying me double Scotches all night.” John said impatiently. “I haven’t heard from him since we left the pub on Saturday. He missed class last night, and I went to Baker Street and it was dark, totally closed up.” Greg looked a little skeptical, so John pressed, “He missed tonight, Greg, without a word to you or to me. He’s been telling me how much the training helps calm his mind, I think he finds it better than the puzzles, and there are no puzzles right now anyway, so why would he miss training and risk his access to crime scenes?” John stopped, a little out of breath after his rant, but he could see Greg’s detective brain working.

“I see what you mean.” The detective said slowly, “He does disappear but this is not like him, to miss the chance to calm that brain of his.” He looked severely at John. “I’ve known him for five years and I don’t know him as well as you, but I do know this: he will have no idea what to do with that text you sent him. You have to find him and talk to him about that, because I can guarantee you there have been precious few people who have ever liked that brilliant git, let alone loved him.” He pointed a finger at him. “Don’t fuck it up.”

John nodded, eyes wide. “I have no idea if it’s even true,” he said miserably, “But if something has happened to Sherlock…” he broke off.

Greg shook his head. “Semantics.” He said, “You’re bonkers for him.” Greg stood up a little straighter, and John could almost see him pull on his professional demeanor. “Right, I’ll get some uniforms to check his known bolt holes, you go around to Baker Street and see if you can get an answer at the door. Mrs. Hudson might be in, get her to let you up. Use my name if you have to. Oh, hang on…” Greg had been about to make a call, but he cancelled it and called a different number.

“Hi, Molly, it’s Greg Lestrade. Listen, have you seen Sherlock this week? He didn’t come to that self defense class, and we’re a bit worried…” he trailed off, and John could hear the high pitched strains of a woman, speaking fast and upset. Greg was pacing now, listening to the woman and rolling his eyes a little. John could only hear his side of the conversation clearly. “What? Right, what did….okay…really?...then why didn’t you….oh, Molly, I know, but….right,…no, no, I’ll sort it, of course I’ll let you know. Right. Bye.” He hung up, and John pounced, desperate to know what this Molly had said. Greg waved him off, having a quick conversation with someone John assumed was Sally, getting the search underway.

“Who is Molly?” John asked, demanded, really.

“Pathologist at Bart’s,” Greg answered concisely, seeing how impatient John was, “Sherlock works with her a bit. She’s got a soft spot for him. Saw him Monday, he was a wreck. He made her promise not to tell anyone, that’s why she didn’t say anything.”

John was confused. “A wreck about what, did she say? Where was he?” John asked.

“At Baker Street, apparently you’re messing with his ‘deductive processes’ and he doesn’t know what to do about it,” Greg said, clearly quoting Molly verbatim.

John nodded, his mind racing. If he really was messing with Sherlock’s mind, Sherlock was probably in overdrive right now. No training, no crime scenes, no puzzles except how to deal with this thing with John, and none of the usual things to slow him down enough to figure it out. John suddenly knew where Sherlock was, and the answer made fear bubble up inside him.

“I need to get into Baker Street.” He told Greg.

Greg just blinked at him. “Look, he might have gone-”

John cut him off. “Can you get me inside?”

Greg shook his head hesitantly, unsure about this sudden change in John’s demenour. “I’m not sure, mate, we should check his bolt holes first, that’s where he goes when he…”

John punched the wall in frustration, the cheap plasterboard cracking as Greg stopped speaking, shocked. “This is not a usual Sherlock situation.” John spoke coldly, the control in his voice betrayed by the broken wall. He took a deep breath and thought for a moment, knowing they needed to act in the right direction. Speed, not haste, he thought.

“What about his brother, can you call Mycroft?” he asked, and Greg’s eyebrows rose and his face flushed. “Why would I be able to do that?” He blustered but John hardly noticed. Thinking of Mycroft had given him an idea. He turned and race out to the reception desk, not even bowing at the door of the dojang.

“People don’t call Mycroft Holmes, he calls them.” Greg said lamely, though John was too far gone to hear.

John raced around the empty desk, grabbing a fat marker and printer paper. He penned a note in huge block letters, then raced outside, standing in the same spot as he and Sherlock had, only last week, when he thought Sherlock might kiss him, he remembered. The memory made his heart squeeze tightly, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, before raising his note up to the sky, to be visible to the CCTV cameras pointed at the door of the Community Centre.

 

MYCROFT HOLMES

HELP ME NOW

SHERLOCK IN TROUBLE

 

He stood there, not moving, until Greg came out behind him, toting his gym bag. Greg looked at the sign, and the direction it was pointing, before saying, “That might take all night, before he gets that message.”

“Then call him,” John snapped, “You’re the one shagging him, don’t tell me you can’t call him, Greg.” Greg’s mouth dropped open, but he snapped it shut without denying the charge, and took out his phone without argument. The two seconds it took to call told John that Mycroft was on speed dial. He’d known Mycroft wouldn’t have been following him on their night out – he’d been following Greg, who had been surprised to wake up in his lover’s bed after their night out. Part of his mind was gleeful at this hunch confirmed, while the rest was still racing on about Sherlock.

“Mycroft, find John Watson.” John heard Greg say without even a preamble. “And for God’s sake, come in person.” The phone was switched off, and Greg said, quietly, “He’ll be here.” John nodded without looking at Greg, his hands falling to his sides, the sign dropping to the damp ground. Less than a minute later, a car arrived. John half smiled at Greg, grabbed his bag and jumped in. He had expected Mycroft, but the same pretty brunette as had picked up Sherlock was there.

“Where to?” She asked calmly.

“Baker Street. Fast.” John replied.

“Where’s Mycroft?” He couldn’t help asking, and she replied distractedly, “On his way to Baker Street.” John nodded, impatient even as they sped through the streets.


	24. Ni ju shi/Su mul net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Watson is in the house.

As soon as the car pulled up outside Baker Street, John was out the door, his bag thrown over one shoulder. He tossed it to one side as he pounded on the door, shouting Sherlock’s name before pounding again, the side of his fist tingling and hot by the time he stopped to consider the silence within. There had not been a movement, though several neighbors had stuck their heads out. One, a man leaning out of the upstairs window next door, caught John’s attention.

“Nobody home, mate,” he called.

John replied instantly, “How do you know?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s gone away with our landlady, Mrs. Turner, and haven’t seen the tall bloke for maybe a week? Been quiet too, no violin or anything so he must be away.” John waved and gave him a half-hearted cheers before he disappeared. John’s mind was racing again. He was certain Sherlock was here, some part of him knowing that Sherlock may go hiding, but he wouldn’t go out, not this time. He was thinking through something different this time, and if John had come knocking, he would want to be here, whether he answered the door or not. Whether he could answer the door or not, the little voice in the back of his head corrected, and John set his jaw. No more fucking around, he muttered to himself, stepping back and readying himself to knock the door in.

“Did you want the key?” The brunette asked absently, and John turned to see her holding it out, one hand still typing on her phone. He was speechless for a moment, wondering when exactly she was going to…never mind. More important things to worry about.

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically, shoving the key in the lock, grabbing his bag and bolting upstairs. He took the stairs two at a time, shouting Sherlock’s name as he went. John burst through the door to the flat, noticing how cold it was, but the sight that seemed to stop his heart was Sherlock lying on the floor, next to the sofa, fully dressed and not moving.

“Sherlock!” John cried, his fear crushing his lungs, before being pushed aside by his medical training. This was something he knew about, something he could do, and his emotional brain was thankful to let his professional centre take over, rolling Sherlock onto his back, checking for breathing and pulse. Both were present, though the action of rolling Sherlock triggered him coughing, a weak, dry sound that wracked his thin body. He was freezing, the silk shirt and dress pants offering no protection against the cool air. John checked quickly for broken bones or other trauma, but Sherlock seemed to be uninjured. John picked him up and laid him on the sofa, grateful it was so close, and covered him with the blanket he found there, as well as Sherlock’s coat, which was discarded on the floor. Heart pounding hard, John looked at Sherlock more closely. His lips were dry and cracked, his mouth gummy, and John wondered when he had last drunk anything, or eaten for that matter. Given the lack of any wound it seemed likely he was weakened by dehydration, starvation and cold. John reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade, cracking it open and sliding one hand behind Sherlock’s head to prop him up.

“Come on, Sherlock, drink some of this,” he crooned as tough talking to a baby. Sherlock had stirred when John lifted him, and now he responded to the pressure on his lips, drinking a small amount of the bright blue liquid before wrinkling his nose. John was satisfied for the moment, though he knew that small amount would not come close to replacing what Sherlock needed if this was the state he was in.

As John pulled his phone out to call 999, he heard a dramatic sigh from behind him. He turned sharply and saw Mycroft standing there, looking calm but disappointed.

“Call me an ambulance,” John snapped without preamble.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and didn’t move a muscle. “Is there a list?” He asked.

John stood up and grabbed a handful of his pristine waistcoat, propelling him back into the wall. His head knocked into it with a satisfying thud, and Mycroft looked stunned at the assault. “Greg might like it when you’re all mysterious,” he ground out, his face inches from Mycroft, “but right now, your brother’s about to have his organs shut down so CALL ME AN AMBULANCE NOW!” he roared, pushing Mycroft again, then letting go of the suit in favour of trying to get Sherlock to drink more of the precious fluid.

Dimly, he heard Mycroft say, “Paramedics are on their way, John, no need to get emotional,” and he opted to ignore it, knowing that he energy was better spent attending to Sherlock. Mycroft would keep, he thought darkly. Sherlock had drunk a little more liquid and now he opened his eyes, muttering something quietly through his cracked lips.

“No list,” John heard, and he relayed it to Mycroft, who raised his eyebrows. John had no idea what it meant, but it seemed important. Time enough for that later.

“Get me some ice, a towel and some water,” he ordered Mycroft, hearing him sigh yet again then leave in the direction of the kitchen. That man could have a whole conversation with those sighs he thought. John found spare socks in his bag and pulled them on Sherlock’s bare feet, wanting as many layers as possible to bring warmth back into Sherlock’s body. He was still cold and his thin frame offered no thermoretentive qualities. Mycroft returned with the supplies John had send him for, and John rubbed an ice cube gently over Sherlock’s mouth, easing the cracked skin and sending more precious drops of fluid into the parched mouth.

“John,” he croaked, and John smiled in relief.

He brushed the curls back from Sherlock's forehead as he whispered, “It’s me, Sherlock. I’m here. You’ll be okay, you idiot, even if you’re daft enough not to eat for a week.”

Sherlock tried to speak again, and John leaned in to hear whispered his words. “No hospital.”

John frowned. That couldn’t be right. “Yes, the paramedics will be here soon,” he crooned, as he looked at Mycroft who held up two fingers, “and we can get you off to hospital.”

“No,” Sherlock said more forcefully, trying to sit up, “no hospital. Only you.”

John looked unsure, and without thinking he glanced at Mycroft hesitantly. “Is he that set against hospitals?” John asked.

Mycroft tilted his head, saying only, “Apparently so.”

John made a fist, then asked in a carefully level voice, “Why?”

Mycroft looked levelly at him and said in a heavily sarcastic tone, “I believe you were interested in information about Sherlock only from the horse’s mouth, as it were. I would hate to take that away from you, Doctor Watson.”

“I need to know anything relevant to his medical history, Mycroft, especially if he expects me to stay here and care for him in lieu of a hospital. Which I will be perfectly capable of doing provided you can get me the equipment I need,” he added in case Mycroft was dubious of his qualifications.

Sherlock turned his head towards Mycroft and nodded once, eyes closed. John gave him some more Gatorade, the bottle now a quarter empty, before Mycroft spoke. “Sherlock has been hospitalized for a range of trauma related injuries, mostly related to his work and none of which will affect your treatment of him. He has also been admitted against his will three times and voluntarily once to undergo narcotics withdrawal management, hence his dislike of hospitals.” Mycroft paused, then added, “He will be a difficult patient, John, and I can assure him a private room at the best facility if you would prefer…”

“No.” John said shortly. “I’ll stay.” Mycroft was still looking narrowly at him when the paramedics arrived, and he simply said to them,

“Leave your bags. Doctor Watson will give you a list of items which you will bring here immediately.” He then gave John a card. “It seems it would be prudent for you to be able to contact me at will. This is my private number. Use it only if necessary.”

“Don’t worry, I can always call Greg, he seems to know where you are most of the time.” John shot at him, though he took the card and added quietly, “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded once then moved into the stairwell, calling, “Keep me informed, Doctor Watson.”

John turned to the paramedics. “Right, I need a heart rate monitor, IV stand, a couple of bags of isotonic sodium chloride solution, a couple of dextrose solution, all the stuff to get a cannula into him, a few shots of antibiotics.” They nodded, rooting through their bags for supplies. They had some things, others would have to be fetched. When they’d finished, John ran through the list again of things he wanted for the next day or so, adding some things as he thought of them, one of the paras taking notes.

They both nodded, then left, leaving John in Sherlock’s flat. He busied himself, finding a bowl to fill with hot water to warm the IV fluids, another way to help warm Sherlock, before he fitted a cannula in his arm. It was very difficult to find a vein, and John could see why – his arm was tracked with marks, and John wondered fleetingly if Sherlock had been tested for blood borne diseases. Finally he found a vein in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, and he we was grateful that he had so much practice inserting cannulas in difficult situations. John used the hat stand as a makeshift IV pole, hanging warmed IV fluids and opening the vents wide to allow them to run quickly into Sherlock’s body. Looking critically at him, John rooted through his own bag, finding a lip balm and coating the dry lips generously. He then went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth, wiping gently at Sherlock’s gummy eyes and across his face. As an afterthought, he grabbed pillows, a blanket and the duvet off the bed, ignoring the fact that this was Sherlock’s duvet, Sherlock’s blanket and Sherlock’s pillows and all smelled deliciously of him. The duvet went over Sherlock, one pillow under his head, the rest for John when he slept sitting up in the chair by Sherlock. Sherlock had drifted off again, more unconscious than asleep, and John took his pulse again. Still too slow and thready, he thought frustrated, but there was nothing else he could do now but wait and monitor him.


	25. Ni ju go/Su mul dasut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally talk.

John had no idea how much later it was that the doorbell rang. He checked Sherlock’s vitals again before going downstairs to find the paramedics at the door with the equipment, an overnight bag and something in a white takeaway bag that smelled like heaven.

“The equipment and stuff,” one of them said, John helping him carry the bags up the stairs, “and your overnight bag, apparently,” John was startled at this, but kept moving, “and dinner.”

“How did you get my overnight bag?” he asked, and the paramedic shrugged. “Mr. Holmes has ways.” He said cryptically, and John decided he was too tired to care.

“What do I owe you for this?” he asked, indicating the food.

“Nothing mate, it’s on Mr. Holmes,” the para said then let himself down the stairs and out the door. John started with Sherlock, adding a dose of antibiotics to his IVs against the possible pneumonia that had set into his lungs, along with a vitamin and mineral supplement. He attached a heart monitor to Sherlock’s finger, the steady beep-beep a comforting assurance that Sherlock was still with the land of the living. He checked the man’s vitals again, relieved to see that they seemed to be a little more stable, the pulse a little closer to normal. He seemed to have moved into sleep, John noticed, relieved that he was travelling away from coma rather than towards it.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asked, checking his sleep vs coma theory. Sherlock frowned, and John asked again. “Open your eyes for me, come on,” he coaxed.

Finally, Sherlock struggled to open his lids, groaning, “John?” as he did so. John was relieved to see his eyes open, and he took the opportunity to check his pupil reaction. Reactive and equal, so a head injury was unlikely.

Cupping one hand to Sherlock’s cheek, he whispered, “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe.” It was an old soldier’s trick, showing the animal brain that a friend was nearby, permitting them to relax into sleep. He allowed Sherlock to drift off again, confident that he was indeed stable and there was nothing John could do now but stay close and let him sleep.

Finally, John sat down, in the comfy looking chair he’d dragged over from in front of the fireplace. He allowed his body to sag, head in hands as the adrenaline wore off. He was shaking, both from relief and the hormone storm that had just taken over his body, calling into action skills he had not used in years. Thank God, Thank God, Thank God, John thought over and over, not a religious man but repeating the mantra of the Army doctor as a matter of course. So many things could have gone wrong, but they were here and Sherlock was alive and stable, and that was all he needed for the moment. Leaning back, John closed his eyes for just a moment, exhausted by the events of the evening coupled with his stressful week.

+++

Startled, John shot upright, realising he must have fallen asleep. A buzzing from his mobile phone, dropped on the side table after his aborted 999 call, told him someone was calling. He snatched up the phone and answered it without looking, one hand scrubbing across his face as he did so.

“Yeah?” He answered, trying to keep his voice down so as not to wake Sherlock.

“John? Mycroft called me, said you’re with Sherlock. Is he okay?” It was Greg, and he sounded tired and a little upset.

“He will be,” John answered, then continued, “didn’t Mycroft tell you that?”

Greg snorted, half in relief and half in amusement. “Mycroft’s version of okay varies from 'in ICU and likely to live', to broken bones, to having a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson.” Greg said, and John chuckled without realising he was doing it. He sighed, relaxing into the back of the armchair. Greg was making a joke about Mycroft, and he was laughing at it. Things must be alright. Not great, but alright.

John asked, “No one has seen him since that Molly of yours, on Monday, was it?” Greg grunting in the affirmative, and John went on, “So as far as I can tell, he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything since at least then, probably even before that, and likely hasn’t slept properly since then either. He was freezing and dehydrated, when we found him.” John didn’t elaborate, but Greg got the picture, from the ‘bloody hell’ he muttered as John spoke.

“So he’s not at hospital, then?’ Greg asked, and John answered immediately,

“No, we’re at his flat, in Baker Street. He’s not well, but I can care for him. Mycroft was very generous in having medical supplies brought over.”

“Yeah, he can be good like that,” Greg replied, though he added as an afterthought, “what about food, is someone going to bring you something to eat?” John looked around and saw the takeaway bag still on the table where he had put it. Grunting and distracted from the conversation with Greg, he stood up and stretched himself out as he walked over, one hand on the boxes to check the temperature. They were still warmish, so he must have been asleep for only an hour or so at least. Immediately he turned to check on Sherlock. The heart monitor was still beeping steadily, his blood oxygen levels fine; John could see him breathing, slow and steady beneath his blanket. John reached under and grasped his hands, feeling the slight warmth of his fingers, and his anxiety stilled. There was still a way to go, but Sherlock was on the mend. He checked the IV bags, changed the almost empty bags for fresh ones, then belatedly realised Greg was still on the line.

“Sorry, what?” he asked. Greg had been talking, but John’s attention had been on Sherlock and he had missed every word.

“Not important,” Greg said without heat. “I’ll call you later, send some food around.”

“Thanks,” John said absently, closing the phone and dropping it back on the table. Watching Sherlock, he sighed, then picked up the takeaway and, without taking his eyes off Sherlock’s sleeping form, sat back down in his chair, arranging the blanket and pillow to make himself comfortable. The food was good, if lukewarm, but John had no appetite, not really. Despite the improvement in Sherlock, he was still on edge, and John doubted he would sleep this night.

+++

John had dozed off.

Gentle daylight was streaming in the windows when John stirred, groaning at the tightness in his neck. He went to roll his shoulder, paused, then stretched as Zeph had instructed him. The replacement of the new habit with the old was working, he was pleased to notice, through the haze of sleepiness that still permeated his brain. He leaned forward, stretching his back as he checked on Sherlock again. Even breathing, IV bags empty, heart rate steady. Even with his pale skin, John could see that he was warmer, his skin pale but no longer ghastly in colour. Checking his watch, John administered another dose of antibiotics and the vitamin supplement, then reached forward, discarding his own blanket, fumbling under Sherlock’s blanket for his hands. The long fingers were warm now, tucked up against his chest, and John squeezed them in his own, finally feeling that Sherlock was coming out of the woods. He bowed his head, enjoying the calm quiet that he felt now, with Sherlock warm and hydrated, their fingers intertwined over his steadily beating heart. As John sent a quiet murmur of thanks out to the universe, he felt Sherlock’s hand twitch, then squeeze his own, the digits weak but definite in their pressure. John’s eyes opened, the focused on Sherlock’s face. His eyes were open, not fully, but enough to look at John, bleary and not quite right. John smiled a little and allowed his hand to release from Sherlock’s, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead.

“Hey,” he said quietly, bringing his hand back so their four hands were once again intertwined on Sherlock’s chest.

“Hey,” Sherlock croaked, and John reached for the ice chips, now melted. He tilted the water into Sherlock’s mouth, holding his head up with one hand at the nape of his neck. That hand slid along Sherlock’s warm skin as he sipped, the cool water lubricating his throat. On impulse, John followed the cup with his own lips, sliding along Sherlock’s mouth, seeking assurance that he was alive and well and here with him. John felt the firmness of Sherlock’s mouth under his and he sighed with relief, the ghost of his breath trailing across Sherlock’s skin.

“Hi,” Sherlock said again, his voice smooth once again, though still weak. He blinked, and looked at John, the lines on his face softened by sleep so he looked younger than ever.

“How do you feel?” John asked.

“Not great,” Sherlock admitted, then shifted and winced.

“From the amount of fluids I’ve pushed into you, I’m guessing you’d need the loo right about now,” John said, and Sherlock nodded. “Here, let me help,” John said, and between them they got rid of the blanket and duvet, Sherlock blinking stupidly at the white sports socks on his feet.

“They’re mine,” John said, following his gaze, “you were freezing.” Sherlock sat up, slowly, John supporting him under his shoulders, and John disconnected the IV lines and heart rate monitor, though he was leaving the cannula in until he was sure Sherlock would tolerate oral hydration and some food. They stood, Sherlock leaning heavily on John as his legs wobbled unsteadily. John took a moment for them to find their balance before guiding Sherlock to the bathroom. He helped him into the small room before leaving Sherlock propping himself up on the vanity.

“I’ll be outside, just call,” John said awkwardly, and Sherlock inclined his head to show he had heard. John wandered a little around the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil to offer Sherlock some level of privacy as he relieved his no doubt full bladder. John heard his name called, and he entered the bathroom to see Sherlock standing carefully by the vanity, one hand still helping his balance. Stepping forward, John offered his arm and Sherlock walked back to the sofa.

“Better?” John asked, and Sherlock smiled. John brought tea over for them both, intent on sitting down and finally having that conversation with Sherlock. Unfortunately the doorbell rang just as he did so. He made sure Sherlock was comfortable, sitting up now on the sofa, blanket tucked around his shoulders, before he ventured downstairs.

He found one of Mycroft’s men at the door, bearing a huge bag that John could smell contained a hot breakfast, along with another shopping bag. John thanked the man then carried the bags upstairs, dropping them on the table before turning to Sherlock.

 “You’re not drinking your tea,” John pointed out, and Sherlock turned his nose up.

“What?” John asked.

Sherlock admitted, “I usually make it with more sugar.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “There are three sugars in there already,” he protested, but still brought the sugar bowl over and added more to the cup. Sherlock nodded, and John moved over to poke through the bags he’d brought up the stairs.

“What do you want to eat?” He asked Sherlock in a voice that broached no arguments.

When Sherlock groaned, “I’m not hungry,” John turned and looked squarely at him, arms folded as he leaned against the table.

“Sherlock, if you don’t eat, I’m not taking out that cannula, and I’ll admit you to hospital against your will if I have to.”

Sherlock looked shocked at this declaration, and he said under his breath, “I thought I was your friend,” John was surprised, then he laughed out loud, a sound that jarred through the otherwise silent flat. “What?” Sherlock asked petulantly, pulling his blanket more closely around his shoulders.

“You are, Sherlock,” John chuckled, starting to take things out of the bag, “that’s what I’m doing. Being a friend.”

Sherlock blinked, then nodded his head. “What’s in the bag? Did Mycroft put honey?” He asked, as John’s hand closed around a smooth square jar. He pulled it out of the bag, and at the sight of it, Sherlock’s face blossomed into a huge grin.

“Honey on toast it is, then,” John muttered as Sherlock looked completely happy, examining the jar, dipping his finger and tasting.

“You know, bees are fascinating…” Sherlock started, and John, busy finding appliances and making toast for Sherlock and assembling a breakfast for his suddenly very demanding stomach, tuned out. Sherlock rambled on about the social structure of bees, the effect different types of flower had on honey and it’s historical uses, but John was just happy enough to hear his deep voice rumbling along. Finally, food assembled, he turned to see Sherlock was still looking at the honey, holding it up to the light and examining the exact colour generated when the pale sunlight passed through it.

“Here you go,” John said, giving Sherlock a plate on which two pieces of toast lay cut neatly into soldiers.

“What’s this?” He asked, looking at the strangely cut toast.

John shrugged. “It’s how my mum used to cut my toast when I was sick,” he admitted, sitting in the armchair, his own plate of eggs and bacon resting on his knees. Sherlock considered this and seemed to find it acceptable, because he raised one piece of toast to his mouth and started nibbling at it.

“Don’t forget your tea, too.” John instructed, and Sherlock obediently took a sip of the sweet, lukewarm liquid. John was watching him like a hawk, and Sherlock was not actually looking at John when he said quietly,

“I’m fine, John.” John’s heart started to beat faster, knowing that there was a conversation here that could not be avoided.

“I thought I was the doctor,” he said.

Sherlock raised his head to look at John. I know my body, John,” he replied.

John could not resist replying, “Is that why you were lying on the floor, freezing and dehydrated when I almost broke in the door to find you?”

Sherlock stilled, one finger pressed into the honey on his toast, before he said slowly, “I admit I slightly miscalculated the time, I had planned on-” but John cut him off.

“Slightly miscalculated? Sherlock if I hadn’t used every contact I had, you would be in a coma by now.” John delivered this with a note of incredulity – could he really be so naïve as to think he wasn’t gravely ill when John had found him? John put his meal aside. This was more important than eating. He rubbed his hands together as he thought, then spoke carefully. “I was very drunk on Saturday night, as you might remember from our conversation earlier. Greg and I kept drinking and I don’t remember sending the last text message, the one your received in the middle of the night.” He swallowed. Sherlock was looking at him now, eyes guarded, though a glimmer of uncertainty was still visible. John pushed on, choosing his words with care, feeling as though he was walking through a verbal minefield. “I get quite…affectionate…when I’m drunk,” he said, “And while I certainly care for you, I would be very glad if we could ignore that text message.” John took at deep break and added, “I have no expectation of you, or your feelings, Sherlock. You are entitled to whatever it is you are experiencing, and if it’s not the same as me, that’s okay. If you’d rather I left so you could sort it out…”

“No!” Sherlock dropped his toast in his haste to grab John’s wrist, strips of honey toast landing on the polished floor where he himself had lain only 12 hours earlier. John looked surprised, then gratified. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t Sherlock trying to decide how to tell him the kiss was a mistake. He waited, knowing now when Sherlock was trying to figure out how to say something.

It was a long, long pause, and John finally broke it by tentatively saying, “Even if it comes out wrong, Sherlock, I’m not going to leave. We are going to have a conversation about what happened with us this week, and we’ll figure it out. Together.” He reached out and took one of Sherlock’s hands in his, the touch sticky with honey, and squeezed.

Sherlock nodded, then took a deep breath and started to speak. “As you may recall from our first text conversation, I have no basis of experience for this situation. As you noted, people and I generally don’t mix, and I came to terms with that a long time ago. I made overtures, they were not accepted, and so it became easier to be alone. Alone protected me, I believed. The puzzles were enough, until they weren’t.” John nodded. This was what he had surmised, and he was curious what Sherlock would say next.

“I was…not happy when Lestrade insisted on our attendance at your class.” He looked at John and smiled a little, and John could imagine what ‘not happy’ might have entailed.

“I thought it was the focus that calmed my mind, and you were generous offering extra lessons.” Sherlock shook his head at the memory. “I have never really had a friend,” he said quietly, “and I had no idea how to go about procuring one.”

John frowned, “Was that what you meant in that text message?” He asked. Sherlock nodded, though not with total conviction.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, and the anguish on his face made John grip his fingers even harder. “My understanding of social convention is not extensive, but I knew that two grown men having dinner together in a nice restaurant was…” He trailed off, looking for the words.

John supplied, “…likely to be construed as not just friends?” Sherlock nodded, and John smiled gently. He was full of admiration at the moment, seeing how difficult it was for Sherlock, who generally spoke easily and confidently, to explain his feelings in such a way.

“But you didn’t say no, and we talked, and you called me your friend, so...” Sherlock trailed off again and shrugged, then picked up, “it was confusing.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock looked a little affronted. “You weren’t the only one confused,” he admitted, and the relief on Sherlock’s face at this was worth the saying. “None of our relationship has been typical, Sherlock, but we don’t have to follow anybody else’s story but ours, however unusual it may be.”

Sherlock took that in, obviously thinking about it, so John took up the opportunity to pick up the honey toast and offer Sherlock those pieces still good to eat. John himself picked up his breakfast, and each ate some of their meal before Sherlock spoke again.

“The problem is,” Sherlock told John, “is that you’re in my head, John.” John looked confused at the accusatory tone of his.

“Am I?” He asked lightly, but Sherlock was looking quite put out, so he asked again with a more serious tone, “Am I.” Sherlock nodded, and John asked carefully once more, “How does that affect your mind?”

“You get in the way,” he said bluntly, and John raised his eyebrows, mouth full of bacon. Sherlock rushed on, “I can’t think when you’re in my head, you get in way of my connections, my ideas, I can’t work.” John could see the anguish, and Sherlock, who had been sitting quietly throughout their conversation, tried to jump up. His weak legs wouldn’t hold him, though, and he, the honey toast, John (who had reached forward to catch him) and the remains of John’s breakfast ended up on the floor in a sticky mess of arms and legs. John, who had tomato sauce on one cheek and a handful of honey, looked at Sherlock, whose lap had collected the rest of John’s plate. For a long moment, they looked at each other, before John burst into laughter. Sherlock was slower, but he too ended up chuckling at the absurdity of their situation.

“Let’s deal with me in your head later,” John said, trying to extricate himself from the tangle of long slim arms and legs. He stopped for a moment, realising his face was inches from Sherlock, who was grinning right at him. Spontaneously, he reached forward with one hand, sliding it onto Sherlock’s stubbly cheek and kissing him, lips sliding together in a messy, intimate moment. John pulled away and grinned again, Sherlock’s eyes halfway closed at the unexpected moment.

“Come on,” John said, pulling Sherlock to his feet. “As long as you start eating, and drink a decent amount of fluid over the next week, you’ll be fine.” They were both a little unsteady, but the high John felt was definitely tilting his axis, too – he and Sherlock were going to figure this out, together. Once they’d gotten rid of the honey.

 


	26. Ni ju roku/Su mul yeosup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally (yes, I know!) get intimate.

An hour later, both Sherlock and John had showered, shaved and dressed. John had showered first, Sherlock insisting, so he had been quick (military habit), then cleaned up as much as possible while Sherlock showered. John didn’t dare touch the kitchen other than to wash the things he had used, wiping down the honeyed floor and packing up the bedding and medical equipment. Almost as an afterthought, he had plugged his phone in to charge and texted Mycroft and Greg.

_Sherlock’s fine. As long as he takes in plenty of fluids and some food this week, there will be no lasting effects. JHW_

 

Mycroft’s response was immediate.

_Thank you, Doctor Watson._

 

As was Greg’s.

_Bit early for waking people, mate. Glad to hear Sherlock’s okay. GL_

 

John bit his lip as he replied,

_Well I had to text Mycroft, so you were going to get woken either way. JHW_

 

Lestrade replied exactly as John thought he would, and John laughed out loud.

_Piss off. GL_

 

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, walking out of his bedroom and into the sitting room. John looked up, his breathing a little more difficult when he saw the long lines of Sherlock’s body in a custom suit, deep blue shirt and that hair….

“Just letting your brother know you’re okay.” Sherlock frowned at the strangled tone of John’s voice.

“Why is that funny?”

John grinned as he said, “I woke Greg, he wasn’t happy.”

Sherlock’s face cleared and he looked distasteful. “Oh.”

John felt a wave of calm come over him, the same sensation as he felt often in Afghanistan, just before he and his crew committed to something from which there was no going back. He’d experienced it a few times back in London, with Sherlock, but never in this context.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, that you went to all that trouble of getting dressed,” John said, walking towards him, “But I’m suddenly quite sure I’m going to slowly and carefully take all your clothes off. Right now.”

Sherlock had frozen at John’s first words, fiddling as he was with his cuff buttons, and he snapped his head up to meet John’s eyes. “What?” He said, and John was standing right in front of him, palms smoothing down the front of his suit jacket.

“I’ve spent so much time thinking about me as your instructor, you as my student, what I’d offered you to help your head,” John explained, his voice low but firm, “I completely forget that you’re actually quite gorgeous, you seem to think I’m not half bad, and after this week’s drama, I’d rather not wait another minute to start exploring that body of yours.” Sherlock’s mouth was hanging open at this blatant seduction speech from John, though once his mind caught up, a slow smile spread across his face, one that made John’s stomach do a twist and shout all on its own.

“Slow, then?” Sherlock asked a little breathlessly, and John ran his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulders, pushing him back against the wall and leaning up to whisper in his ear, “Oh, yes, Sherlock.” A tiny whine escaped Sherlock at this, and his hands tightened around John’s waist. John smiled as he pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, inhaling his scent and reveling in the sensation of being so close to him. He smelled clean, like expensive soap and aftershave and something else, probably hair product, and John pressed his mouth to the smooth skin there, tasting what he had smelled, plus something extra – the unique hallmark that was Sherlock. It was intoxicating. John felt a thrill run down from his mouth to his groin, and he went with the sensation, pressing his hips into Sherlock. Sherlock gasped, clutching at John, arms snaking around John and pulling him in tight. John kissed Sherlock’s neck again, parting his lips and licking at the skin, taking his time and working his way down to the pulse pounding at the base of his neck. He pressed his mouth to it, the sensation of Sherlock’s lifeblood pounding under the sensitive skin of his lips forcing a groan from his mouth, and he felt Sherlock’s response, their bodies being pressed closer than ever. John’s fingers tracked down to start opening Sherlock’s shirt buttons, slowly exposing more delicious, pale skin. For each button, he stopped, worshiping what had been revealed. He kissed and licked, nibbled at the skin, fascinated by the sounds he was eliciting from Sherlock. As he neared the bottom, Sherlock reached impatiently around and pulled out his shirttails, popping the last few buttons off, and John could hear them skittering across the floor. They locked eyes for a moment, the tight control of the soldier meeting the feverish need of the detective.

“Slow, then?” John echoed Sherlock, and the taller man grinned, a little abashed.

“Too slow and I might explode,” Sherlock explained throatily, rolling his hips into John’s. John’s knees buckled a little with the blaze of white heat that bloomed in his groin at the friction Sherlock had caused. He closed his eyes, drawing on that self-control, otherwise this was going to be no more than a five minute fumble.

“Oh, I can guarantee that’s gonna happen,” John said, looking Sherlock in the eye, a rush of endorphins fueling his high as he felt Sherlock whimper. He added in an undertone, “maybe twice, if I can manage it,” and Sherlock gasped, “John!”, who grinned wickedly.

“Come on,” he said, half pulling Sherlock off the wall and manhandling him into the bedroom. They burst through the door, Sherlock’s fingers fumbling at his cuff buttons before he shed his jacket and shirt in a puddle on the floor. John had started with his own shirt and socks and shoes, acknowledging that this first time would not be the slow exploration he had imagined. That would happen later, and the very idea that this would not be the only time he would be so intimate with Sherlock sent another thrill shafting right to his groin. He stripped off his own shirt, and saw that Sherlock had stripped down to his pants. John, still wearing jeans, put one hand on Sherlock’s, where he had hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants, ready to drop them off his slim hips.

“May I?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded stutteringly. John grinned at him, then kissed him lightly, trailing one hand teasingly down his chest to the scant trail of dark hair below his belly button. John could hear Sherlock’s breath catch as he slipped his hand lower, cupping Sherlock’s erection, his hips bucking instinctively. Before Sherlock could say anything, John dropped to his knees, replacing his hand with his face, nosing at the side of the firm cock within Sherlock’s black cotton boxers. Sherlock groaned, his fingers running through John’s hair as he blew hot breath along the length of him. Mouthing at the wet patch that was growing near the head, John tasted leaking pre-come as impressive evidence of Sherlock’s arousal. John wanted desperately to run his tongue along the length of Sherlock, to take him in his mouth and taste him without the barrier of the cotton pants he was currently pressing his face into. He was astute enough to realise, though, that at this rate, Sherlock wouldn’t last long, and he wanted to savour the first time he made Sherlock come with his mouth. Instead, John tugged Sherlock’s pants down, carefully over the head of his cock, and looked up at Sherlock. The man who looked back at him was disheveled, and John grinned as he kissed the head of his cock, licking up the sharp taste of pre-come, before ruefully standing and starting to remove his own jeans. Sherlock, who had let out almost a shouted groan when John’s mouth touched his cock, grabbed at John’s hands, lowering his zip and inching one hand inside his jeans and his pants, fingertips just brushing the tip of John’s hard cock, his own wetness transferring to Sherlock’s fingers as his hips bucked of their own accord. Sherlock removed his hand, to John’s intense disappointment, only to bring his fingers to his mouth, eyes on John as he licked the salty pre-come from his fingers. John’s mouth fell open at what was one of the sexiest things he had ever seen, this gorgeous man clearly longing to have sex with him, teasing him with an unspoken promise of the future. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he watched John’s face, and John said, voice low and rough,

“I hope you’re not deducing anything, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock just grinned a filthy grin and raised one eyebrow. John, heart fluttering and cock bobbing with a sudden throb of need, fumbled like a teenager to get the rest of his clothes off. And then, finally, he and Sherlock were together, naked and very, very aroused. Without pause, they came together, mouths clashing and arms around each other, the caress of skin on skin drawing a series of moans and groans from both as they backed blindly towards the bed, falling when the mattress hit the back of John’s legs. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs, Sherlock sprawled across John, whose hand reached around to grab handful of that amazing arse, pulling Sherlock into him until they were rutting together like teenagers.

“Lube?” John panted, knowing they’d not last long if this was how it was going to happen.

“Hang on,” Sherlock grunted, reaching to the bed side table, removing a bottle of lubricant. He handed it to John, who squirted some onto his hand then spread it over Sherlock’s cock and his own, gritting his teeth as his hand found his own cock. It wouldn’t take long, at this rate – Sherlock was magnetic, attractive from a distance but positively electric up close, and John hadn’t reacted this strongly to anybody since he was a randy teenager. John’s hand was on Sherlock, the lubricant helping him move hard and fast and smooth, no finesse necessary or possible, with Sherlock’s hand flying hard over him, driving him towards his own climax.

“John, John, John….” Sherlock was panting, his head buried in the crook of John’s neck, hips pumping his cock into John’s hand. John could feel his body tensing as the orgasm pulled in, then exploded out, shooting sticky streams over John’s chest and hand. John’s hand slowed, guiding Sherlock through the climax and down the other side, his own arousal still present but dulled for the moment with the wonder of watching Sherlock’s face, the expression complex and breathtakingly intimate. With a start, he felt Sherlock’s hand start sliding along his length again with intent, and Sherlock turned his head, breathing heavily into John’s ear.

“Please…please, John…come for me…please…” Sherlock was whispering, and the need in his voice, the unguarded want was enough to make John come without warning, his body bucking as it shot ribbons of come over himself and Sherlock. John’s fingers were tingling, and he was breathing hard, and there was a new edge to his post-orgasm haze. It had been a while, to be fair, but he had a feeling it was more about Sherlock than anything else. It was a long time since he had come so abruptly, with no control, and Sherlock, with just a few words whispered breathily in his ear, had achieved that. John sighed, floating on the fluffy post orgasmic haze.

“We should clean up a little,” Sherlock said, and John could only manage an “mmm,” in agreement. He felt Sherlock get up, the warmth of his body dissipating quickly, before the bed dipped again, and a gentle hand was wiping John clean, his stomach and chest and groin, a wet cloth, from the feel of it. Sherlock was gone again for a moment, before returning, lying down next to John without touching.

“Hi,” John managed, rolling over towards Sherlock. He had opened his eyes and could see that Sherlock had turned towards him too, though there was still a gap between their bodies.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, and John took a moment to look at the great detective at rest. His face was calm, but John could read uncertainty in his eyes.

“This is the part where…well, it can be the part where we do whatever the hell we want, because we are grownups.” John said, a gentle teasing tone designed to soften the explanation. Sherlock relaxed a little, then reached for John. John grinned, and said,

“I knew you were a cuddler.” Sherlock screwed up his nose, but he and John figured out their arms and legs, finally resting comfortably in their relaxed haze.

“I suppose I am.” Sherlock rumbled, his voice resonating through John as they were so close.

“Just as a general question…” Sherlock started, then trailed off. John waited, one finger tracing over Sherlock’s bicep.

“I trust you’ll give me constructive criticism of my sexual performance, John,” Sherlock said seriously, and John jerked in surprise. He could feel the tension in Sherlock’s body, and he though quickly about the best response.

“If I wasn’t clear,” John replied, continuing to trace his finger towards Sherlock’s nipple, idly tracing a slow circle around it, feeling the little nub harden under his touch, “you are remarkable, and I have absolutely no complaints about what just happened.” He leaned down to kiss the nipple, running his tongue over it. “And if  you recall, I do plan on aiming for two orgasms for you, Mr. Holmes, if you have no objection.” Sherlock shook his head, a grin on his lips and he leaned in to kiss John.

“I’m not sure if I should say, ‘not if I make you come first,’” Sherlock whispered, “or ‘of course not.’”

John smiled against Sherlock’s lips, saying, “How about we take it in turns this time?” Sherlock nodded, arching his neck as John’s mouth wandered across his smooth chin and down his neck. John took his time, knowing that Sherlock could take more teasing this time, even if he could make it to another climax. He kissed along Sherlock’s collarbone, then traced down one arm, kissing along the tiny scars that made up the track marks along his inner elbow. Sherlock shuddered at this, and John knew he knew what John was doing. He kissed across Sherlock’s rib cage, tracing with one finger the too-prominent ridges, starting when Sherlock flinched, then gasped, “Tickles.” John grinned, his heart pounding even faster as he tucked that little piece of Sherlock knowledge away. He licked instead, broad firm strokes to avoid the tickles, and Sherlock groaned, his fingers digging into John’s shoulders as he moved along Sherlock’s torso, inching closer to the dark hair nestled between his legs. John’s chest had been slowly sliding against Sherlock’s groin as he moved down, and he could feel the stirrings of interest slowing building as he kissed along his lower false ribs. John stopped as he reached the floating ribs, blowing cool air across the wet streak of kisses he’d left on Sherlock. The taste of Sherlock’s skin was intoxicating, changing as he moved across his body, his chemistry changing the composition of his sweat, making John want to keep going forever, lest he miss a flavour. John could feel his own erection growing again, a phenomenon he had not managed so fast in a number of years. It was certainly Sherlock, he knew now; his senses were overwhelmed with Sherlock and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he would never tire of it.

Looking up, John rested his chin on the crease between torso and thigh, watching in fascination as Sherlock fought to control his reaction to John’s attentions. He grinned to himself. This was more like it, a slow build, teasing, savouring each moment; John loved this part. He loved making people feel good, and that translated from his professional life to martial arts to the bedroom. He could see that Sherlock’s breathing had slowed a little, his clenched fists, now in the blankets, had stopped gripping and releasing. Experimentally, John turned his head and blew lightly on Sherlock’s mostly erect cock, and immediately a moan from Sherlock was matched by a dipping of his cock as it filled to capacity. John ran his tongue across the top, tasting the sticky come from earlier, salivating at the idea of his mouth forcing more from Sherlock’s body. His hand slid around the base as he wrapped his mouth around Sherlock’s cock, taking as much into his mouth as he was able. Sherlock called out, though John knew not what, his mind full of the idea of what he was doing and oh my God this is amazing and I hope I get to do this again better do a go job. John sucked hard, his cheeks pulling in, having no idea what Sherlock liked, and was rewarded with another groan. He worked slowly, not wanting Sherlock to bring Sherlock to the point of no return too soon. He tried soft and firm licks, broad strokes up and down the shaft, little swirls around the head, deep sucks as low as he could go. One hand crept forwards of his chin, cupping Sherlock’s balls, gently pulling on the soft skin, and he just about jumped off the bed. ‘That would be a yes, then’, John thought to himself, and proceeded to take his mouth down there, sucking each testicle into his mouth, gentle mouthing them as his hand worked up and down, twisting at the top for his thumb to spread the pre-come that was now dripping down his cock.

“Please John, please…” Sherlock whimpered.

John stopped suddenly, bringing his head up so he could look at Sherlock while playing the tip of his tongue over the source of the pre-come, teasing Sherlock as he spoke. “So slow is good too, right?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded hard. “Good, so good…” He murmured, canting his hips in a futile attempt to capture more of John’ mouth. John marveled at the state he had brought Sherlock to, then took pity on him, determined to make him come as quickly as possible now.

“I want you to come, now,” John said, murmuring the words against the shaft of Sherlock’s straining erection. “Can you do it for me now, Sherlock?” Sherlock nodded fervently, and without warning, John dropped his head, taking Sherlock deep, sucking hard, one hand on the base of his cock and one teasing his balls. It took less than a minute for Sherlock to start bucking uncontrollably, shouting John’s name as he spurted into the back of John’s throat. There wasn’t as much as he remembered there could be, though it was Sherlock’s second go in a short time, and John swallowed easily. He stayed where he was, kissing Sherlock’s softening erection through his aftershocks, finally working his way back up Sherlock’s body to lie beside him as he breathed hard, flat on his back, eyes closed. John lay next to him, lazily palming his own erection, which had coalesced the longer he tasted and listened to Sherlock. He was definitely interested but not frantic, and right now, lying next to Sherlock as he came down from his orgasm was actually doing a great job, John was surprised to find. He could still taste Sherlock on his tongue, the flavours tangy and salty, and the memory of what he had just done made his fist move faster over his cock. With a sudden inhalation, Sherlock turned to face John, his unusual eyes opening to stare right at John. John looked right back, allowing the arousal he felt to colour his expression.

“Do you want me to….” Sherlock asked uncertainly, and John grinned a slightly breathless grin.

“Whatever you want, Sherlock.” He leaned forward, his rhythm not stopping and kissed Sherlock, thrusting his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, adding that flavour to the mix already on his palate. Sherlock reflexively move in towards John, hands on his face as they kissed. John moved closer, the orgasm pulling up through his belly slowly, slowly, his body no long a teenager able to rebound so quickly, but definitely moving forward. He groaned, and Sherlock bent his head to kiss John’s neck, sucking on the skin, tasting sweat and his own soap and John, and Sherlock groaned, triggering the same sound again from John. He moved up, licking the skin behind John’s ear, sucking hard on his earlobe before whispering in a deep filthy voice,

“Come for me, John…I want to feel you come on me….I want to feel you get tight…right…here…” at this he slid one hand down John’s body to cup his balls, tugging gently, making John buck and shout.

“God, Sherlock!” and promptly come hard, his body shaking as it worked hard to ejaculate on Sherlock’s stomach. John swore intensely, then fell limp, his body collapsing sideways on the bed. Sherlock shifted a little, his hand sliding back up John’s torso to grip his free hand, and they lay, hand in hand, naked and spent, dozing in the London morning.


	27. Ni ju shichi/Su mul ilgup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't realise how much a crime scene will impact on him.
> 
> ***PTSD/Panic attack trigger warning. ***  
> Main idea, if you'd rather avoid this chapter, is that the crime scene brings on a panic attack in John as it is so similar to Afghanistan. Sherlock takes him back to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it was EllieSaxon who insisted on Sherlock taking John to a crime scene. So here it is.

John figured that many hours had passed from the dim evening light in Sherlock’s room. It made sense, given their weariness and the energetic sex of the morning before - they'd dozed most of the rest of that day and, it seemed, this one too. He was clean, but Sherlock himself was gone, which made Doctor Watson sit up immediately, then go and find him, make sure he was okay. In the end he was sitting in his chair in the sitting room, dressed in just his dressing gown, from the look of it.

“Are you wearing any pants?” John couldn’t help asking, and Sherlock looked down at himself.

“No,” he said consideringly, and they giggled at each other, a new warmth in the look they shared.

“Alright, then?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Me too,” he said, leaning down to drop a kiss on Sherlock’s head, “but tea would make it better.”

“Help yourself,” Sherlock indicated the kitchen, and John took his cue good naturedly, making tea for two and bringing it back to sit opposite Sherlock, the steam from his mug bathing his face in warmth.

“So,” John asked, wanting to pick up their previous conversation before anything else could get in the way, “What are we going to do about me being in your head?” He sipped at the hot liquid. “I’m assuming what we just did was good…for your head, I mean.”

Sherlock looked at John mock severely, then answered, “Good is not the term, John, for such an experience. Nirvana, heaven, transcendental. Needless to say, my head is completely fine right now.” He cocked an eyebrow and said teasingly, “better than training.”

“No!” John said, grinning at him. They sat in easy silence for another minute, John enjoying this return to their comfortable state after the week they had had, until he said quietly, “Do you think it will last through a case, though?” Sherlock looked at John, and he knew that this was the thought that had driven Sherlock from his bed despite his fatigue.

“What are we going to do, then?” John asked, and he saw a flicker in Sherlock’s eye at the use of the word ‘we’, followed by a smile. John suspected few people had ever used the word ‘we’ and included Sherlock in that circle.

“I have thought of twelve possible solutions, three of which are acceptable.” Sherlock replied immediately.

John grinned. “Of course you have. Do you want to hear what I thought we could do?” Sherlock cocked one eyebrow at John, who realised what he had said and tilted his head, saying, “My eyes are up here, Sherlock.” Sherlock grinned at the comment, then sat up straighter in his chair. “Right, bear with me, not all of these are great ideas, but they’re what I’ve thought of.” Sherlock made a ‘come on, come on’ gesture with his hand, and John dived right in, ticking them off his fingers as he went.

“One. We stop seeing each other, you kick me out of your brain.” Sherlock shook his head hard, and John agreed. The smile on Sherlock’s face was almost wondrous, John mused, like he was being given the biggest sweet in the shop, that he never thought he’d be allowed to have. Just because someone wanted to be around him. John shook his head mentally. He could spend his whole life making this extraordinary man feeling worthy. Shaking the feeling off for the moment, he continued, “Two. We practice every day to calm your mind. Three. You take a recording of me to see if that helps to calm your mind. Four. I follow you everywhere to see if your mind keeps me out if you can see me. Five…” John didn’t get any further, because Sherlock had sat up straighter, his eyes bright.

“Perhaps…” He said musingly, then looked penetratingly at John.

“Would you be open to an experiment, John?” He asked, and John was tempted to make a joke about all sex being experimental the first time, before he realised Sherlock was not in the mood for a joke. He nodded instead. Sherlock stood up and strode over to his jacket, retrieving his phone, frowning when he evidently found it’s battery dead. He plugged it in before making a call.

“Lestrade? Anything out there? No, no, I’m fine. My doctor’s cleared me for duty.” He said cavalier manner.

John leaned forward saying, “Hang on a minute...” but Sherlock held up one hand, listening to Lestrade.

“We’ll see you there.” Sherlock hung up.

John wasn’t sure what to address first. “We?” he said, starting with the most pressing question.

“Yes, we. Both of us.” Sherlock added, then paused as he strode back into the bedroom to begin getting dressed. John trailed after, absently finding his own clothes.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

John considered, then answered, “I don’t know where we’re going, I don’t know what I’m meant to do when I get there, and you should not be out of bed at all, let alone running around after Lestrade.” he said, but Sherlock just smiled a secret smile.

“Trust me, John.” He answered in his deep voice, and to John’s surprise, he leaned forward and kissed John softly on the mouth. It was just a touch, but John could feel the tremor, the unfamiliarity rippling through Sherlock as he made what for him was such a bold move. John smiled against his lips, fingers coming up to caress Sherlock’s now smooth cheek, and the tremor substantiated into a shiver. John grinned as the contact was lost, watching as Sherlock opened his eyes and focused on John.

“I do,” John said simply, and realised it was really all he could do, after this man had trusted him so much. How could he do anything but?

+++

As they sat in the cab, John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking out the window. He obviously felt John’s gaze on him, because he said quietly, “Okay, you’ve got questions.”

John replied, “Where are we going?”

“Crime scene. Next?”

John considered, his heart rate increasing at the idea of attending a crime scene, even though this was London, not Afghanistan, and it was unlikely to be a shooting. He’d still found those hard, even in the ER, and had avoided attending them where he could. “What do you do? Lestrade said consultant, but…”

“But?”

“But consulting in what?”

“I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

John considered this for a moment. “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “You’ve seen what I can do.” He said, about to launch into another deduction, but John put his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I didn’t mean that. I only meant, why do they let you keep doing it, even though you’re brilliant, if you’re not actually a copper?” Sherlock didn’t answer, and John ventured,

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock said, “No!”

John backed off again, not sure what to say, but as he considered, the cab stopped. They had arrived.

+++

They stepped out of the cab into the weak light of the sun, indistinct due to the haze. Before they approached the police tape blocking off a building, John turned to Sherlock and asked,

“Do we have a plan?” Sherlock looked at him, and John was surprised at the confidence he seemed to ooze. This was his forte, where he shone, and there was no an ounce of insecurity here. John realised that his job was to stand near Sherlock and just be there. That seemed as good an idea as any, so John nodded at Sherlock, trusting that he at least had a plan, both to get him in and get him out again in one piece.

They strode across the darkened cul-de-sac, Sherlock pulling up the crime scene tape for John, before ducking under himself. John could feel his body tensing, as it did when he had been in Afghanistan. The unknown, the potential for conflict, the dark especially, made his senses go on high alert. He was automatically looking at exits, checking for weapons (kind of redundant seeing as almost everyone here was a copper), reading people, and he had to keep up a conscious stream of ‘calm down, it’s fine’ to keep his PTSD under control. His hand was clenching without his conscious effort, and John breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.

The first person they encountered was Sally Donovan, and John watched her face go through annoyance, determination, surprise, and resignation, presumably when she remembered Lestrade’s dressing down the previous week.

“Sherlock,” she said, without warmth, but no snide tone or nasty nickname, so John considered it a win.

“John,” she added, smiling tightly.

“Hi, Sally,” he said, and Sherlock, who had paused for a moment to nod at Sally, continued as she pointed into the stairwell and up. As interactions went, it was far from cordial, but John could sense the restraint from both Sally and Sherlock and appreciated the effort on both parts. He made a mental note to tell Lestrade so that he could give the positive feedback to Sally as encouragement.

They made their way to the second story, where John stopped for a moment in the doorway, gripping the doorway tightly and breaking in through his nose, out through his mouth. The pink clad woman was as far as possible from what he had seen in Afghanistan, but the simple fact that she was dead, and violently so, brought back memories with a vengeance. It was the smell, he thought, of death, but also dust and dirt that made it so different to the bodies in the ER. They were easier to push away than this, and John focused hard on the police officers and Sherlock, sweeping around in his big coat. Feeling himself stronger, he moved into the room, standing against the wall while he let the others work. Sherlock was on fire, looking at details Anderson had obviously not bothered with, though he could hardly be blamed as John had no idea why her umbrella and wedding ring were so significant. Sherlock looked though, muttering to himself and glancing occasionally at John, who did his best to send a reassuring smile.

“Sherlock, glad you’re here,” Lestrade said, striding into the room, though his motion arrested when he passed John.

“Hi,” John said, and Lestrade looked at him quizzically, then grinned. He indicated his neck, surreptitiously, then nodded at Sherlock, and John’s face flamed as he realised Sherlock had left a hickey visible on his neck only hours ago.

“Well I know why you’re here, then,” Greg said, in an undertone.

John muttered, “Git.”

Greg turned his attention to Sherlock, saying,“Hey Sherlock, what have you got?”

The detective glanced over, clearly deducing Lestrade, then smirked as he removed his gloves, saying, “More than you, from the look of it. So sorry this crime scene interrupted your little tete-a-tete with my dear brother.”

Lestrade looked gobsmacked, then exasperated, and John gently cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked.

John replied, “Bit not good, yeah.” He indicated the body without looking at it, saying, “Tell him what you saw.”

As Sherlock launched into an explanation of who the woman was, where she was from and what she was doing here, Anderson came in to remove her to the morgue. As they turned her over, the gun-shot wound in her temple was visible, blood running down her face and pooling in her eye socket. The graphic image was like a steam train to John, adrenalin coursing through is system like a tsunami, heart pounding, brain screaming, “GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!” He bolted, not minding the people, getting tangled in the police tape before he tore it into pieces, still moving fast but no longer in that blind panic. He started breathing hard, the adrenalin now making his limbs shaky, and his legs would no longer support him. John found himself sliding down a brick wall, the ground hard but strangely not cold, part of his brain said it should be cold, but the processing centre was bypassed in favour of more primal areas of John’s brain. A figure approached him, and he dimly heard a voice saying,

“John? Are you alright? John?” He could hear but couldn’t answer, his shaking body and uneven breathing taking all his energy at the moment. Closing his eyes, John struggled to control his breathing, knowing that this was the key to stopping the panic attack. With his eyes closed his balance was gone, and he found his cheek lying against something hard-but-not-cold, and he drew his knees around him. There seemed to be other people, a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off, trying to focus on himself amongst the firestorm of information coming into his brain.

“John, it’s me.” A voice, calm and deep, broke through, quietly and gently. John thought it should be familiar but he couldn’t pace it. It was calming though, and he clung to it.

“You’re having a panic attack. You’re safe, John. It’s Sherlock, I’m here. Let’s breathe together, it will make you feel better. Breath in, two, three; and out, two, three. In, two three; out, two, three.” The voice stayed close, though nobody was touching him, and John followed the breathing, feeling the shaking slowly dissipate and his senses return. He was lying on his side in some filthy alleyway, face pressed to the cold concrete. Taking a deep breath, he unsteadily sat himself up, propping himself against the wall. There was a crowd, he could vaguely see, and a figure closer, sitting on the ground in front of him.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, and the figure leaned forward.

“I’m here,” he replied, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping John’s face. Someone passed him some water and he wet the handkerchief, wiping John’s face clean of the grit and sweat accumulated through his panic attack.

John guzzled the offered water, then muttered to Sherlock, “It’s every copper in London come for a look, then?”

Sherlock flew up, turning to the assembled onlookers and saying, “Right, he’s fine, off you go and catch a murderer.” The paramedics hung around, clearly unsure if they should offer their services to John, but Sherlock scowled so fiercely that they left.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said, helping John to his feet.

Lestrade strode across the cul-de-sac, a ‘What on earth was that?’ look on his face, and Sherlock said shortly, “I’ll talk to you later. You know everything important, even you could…” he stopped as John cleared his throat, then started again in a more moderate tone. “Let me know if you need anything else. John and I will be at Baker Street.” John didn’t look at Lestrade, his exhaustion and embarrassment keeping his eyes closed. Lestrade found them a cab, and in seconds, John and Sherlock were headed back to Baker Street.


	28. Ni ju ku/ Su mul a-hop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's turn to care for John, as they talk about their future together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows immediately from the previous chapter, in which John experiences a panic attack. There is some mention of (my experience) of the after effects of a panic attack, though no actual panic attack in this chapter.  
> x

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock helped John up the stairs and back into bed. John wasn’t going to argue; he was in no mood to talk, and as usual his attack had left him physically and emotionally exhausted. Bones aching, head fuzzy and dull, he knew sleep was the best thing for his confused body. He took Sherlock’s offer of ibuprofen and a sleeping tablet and quite happily sank into oblivion, knowing Sherlock would be there when he finally woke.

+++

John rose slowly towards consciousness, awareness of his body and surroundings gradually bleeding through the stupor of sleep. He still felt weary, as he often did after a panic attack, but that would dissipate over the next day or so, regardless of what he did. Taking it easy was certainly on the cards, though. He inhaled deeply and stretched, checking on the condition of his body, especially his weaker shoulder. Everything seemed to be in working order, so he blinked his eyes open, the light dim and not too offensive to his unused retinas.

“Why would you accompany me to a scene when you knew it would likely trigger a panic attack?” the long words and fast delivery meant that most of this was lost on John, who at this point had not yet sat up properly. The tone was cross, he could tell.

“What?” He asked stupidly, pulling himself into a sitting position and knuckling at his eyes. Sherlock sighed and repeated himself impatiently. John, who by now could process the question, looked at Sherlock for a long moment.

“Because you asked me to.” He replied simply.

Sherlock stared. “What?” he asked.

“You asked me to,” John repeated quietly, “and by the time I realised how…difficult I would find it, we were there.”

He shrugged as though it was no big deal, but Sherlock could see through it and said, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Probably not.” John agreed soberly. “I didn’t realise it would be so different to the ER, and a shooting…” He trailed off, realising how foolish he had been.

“Anyway,” John went on, pulling himself out of his head, “We are missing the big question: Did I help?” He looked intently at Sherlock, who couldn’t help a smile coming over his face.

“It worked!” John yelped in relief.

Sherlock was more reserved, though his eyes were twinkling. “Something worked, though it was unclear if it was a residual effect of the sex or of your specific presence at the scene.”

John rolled his eyes, but said, “There’ll have to be more experiments, then?”

Sherlock nodded, “There will indeed.” He intertwined his fingers with John’s, looking down at the duvet where they lay, and said softly, “That was very generous of you, John. You shouldn’t risk your own health for me in the future.”

John covered their hands with his, turning his body towards Sherlock. “Not your call,” he said, “though a panic attack is not my favourite thing. We will definitely have to see if the other option is sufficient instead.”

Sherlock grinned, his ears turning pink with pleasure. “Lestrade was not that happy I brought you, actually,” he said conversationally, sliding down so he was leaning against the headboard, hand still intertwined with John’s. John exhaled a puff of air, unsurprised at the news.

“I’ll have to call him and apologise, I assume you wouldn’t have,” John said to himself.

He was surprised again when Sherlock said, “I explained the parameters of the experiment, and he agreed that it was reasonable to bring you to a scene. That was before you left, of course.”

John swore, then asked, “And have you contacted him since we got home?”

Sherlock said, “He called me, I explained the inconclusive nature of the data and that we would probably just have a lot of sex and see if that worked better. He seemed fine with that, hung up right in my ear actually.”

John’s face flushed, not sure how he was going to face Greg at class next week with so much information in his brain about he and Sherlock. “Too much information, Sherlock,” he murmured, and Sherlock looked confused. John searched for an explanation that would make sense to Sherlock. “If you wouldn’t want to know it about Greg and your brother,” he said, “they won’t want to know it about us.” Sherlock looked quite appalled, and John figured he had made his point.

“Anyway, what did you see?” John asked, knowing Sherlock liked explaining his deductions. He watched Sherlock as he described his observations, hands waving and hair bouncing, all about the umbrella, the clean and dirty jewelry, the mud spatter up the back of her stockings.

“It was all so _pink_ , John,” he explained, “So simple when you looked at it.”

“No,” John said, “So simple when _you_ looked at it.” He smiled at Sherlock and kissed him gently, pride swelling for this remarkable man and his lightening thought processes. Sherlock kissed him back, his fingers tightening on John’s, and they remained as such for long minutes, enjoying the intimacy of this place and this time, without the urgency of need flooding over it all.

Finally, John pulled away, dropping a few kisses down Sherlock’s jaw as he went.

“So,” he asked, “I keep meaning to ask. If it’s not actually Mycroft, why does Greg let you come to crime scenes?” He knew this would be a conversation that Sherlock wouldn’t really want to have, but he needed to hear it from Sherlock, and he suspected the drug history he heard from Mycroft would be all wrapped up in it together. He also needed to know that Sherlock would tell him honestly what had happened. His bullshit-from-Sherlock meter was getting fairly good, and he thought he’d know if it wasn’t the truth. Inside he was fervently hoping Sherlock would trust him enough with this part of his life.

Sherlock was looking at John again, then down at their hands, where he flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling John squeeze his in return. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began to speak.

“I told you that I met Lestrade at a crime scene.”

John nodded. “You were hanging around a dodgy end of town waiting for a police car, right?”

Sherlock winced, still not looking at John. He corrected in a low voice, “I was strung out in an alley, so desperate for my fix I hadn’t noticed the body on the other side of the dumpster. I was using heroin and cocaine, whatever I could get my hands on at that point. When the police showed up, they suspected me until I established all the evidence that actually excluded me as a reasonable suspect and clearly pointed in another direction. Lestrade threw me into an ambulance and sent me to hospital. Mycroft prevented my arrest, but he allowed Lestrade to restrain me while I came down. While I was still there, Lestrade came to find me, and Mycroft was hanging around, as usual. I had been right about the body, the evidence pointed to someone the girl had known, and they caught her dealer the next day.” The satisfaction coloured his voice, even now.

“Lestrade demanded to know how I’d done it, and I told him how I saw, I observed. He stormed out, but came back the next day, a box of cold cases for me to look at, to see if I was ‘for real’. I made connections, solved a couple, and the change to my mind was amazing – it was better than the drugs for calming it, even during my withdrawal, giving it something worthwhile on which to work. Best of all, the effect lasted after the cases had finished, allowing me to sleep and have some time with a quiet mind.” He sat quiet for a few moments, and John didn’t interrupt, knowing there was more to come.

“Lestrade told me I could help as long as I was clean. He couldn’t get me into crime scenes, but I could work on cold cases as a consultant. It wasn’t what I needed and I…expressed my displeasure at it.” John grinned, knowing what that might have been like. “Mycroft and Lestrade evidently had a conversation, the result of which was a deal. I was to get clean and stay that way for a month, in which Lestrade would supply me with cold cases on which to work. After that time, I would be allowed to attend crime scenes with Lestrade and with the express assurance that I would not touch any drugs of any kind.” He shrugged, then, the story at an end.

“That was four years ago. The other staff didn’t like me, that was clear, but not uncommon. It was working well, it was fine until…it wasn’t. The puzzles weren’t working as well, my mind was restless, and I was already starting to wonder what next.”

“And that’s where I came in.” John said, the satisfaction in his own voice now as he realised how close he had come to meeting Sherlock at the wrong time, or even worse, not at all. He frowned. “Is that how Mycroft and Greg met?” He asked, and Sherlock turned up his nose at the topic.

“Yes, though I understand Greg was married at the time.” He said as baldly as possible, clearly not wanting to extend the conversation.

“So when did he hit on you, then?” John asked, his mouth twitching in a way Sherlock knew meant he was trying not to smile.

“Later.” Sherlock said shortly, then expanded when John raised one eyebrow. “It wasn’t that he hit on me, per se, but it was clear that he would have accepted an overture on my behalf, given the state of his marriage, and I considered it proof of his bisexuality.”

John snorted. “You were just being dramatic, then.” He said in that voice which said both, ‘you git’, and ‘you’re lovely.’

Sherlock had no idea how he did that, but it was wonderful, and he wanted to hear more of it. “I suppose.” He conceded, then pulled John down into an embrace, kissing him thoroughly before they lay in each other’s arms, John still tired down to his bones, Sherlock content to marvel at the turn of his life.

“So, what now?” He asked.

John said lazily, “In what?”

“Everything, of course.” Sherlock replied.

John considered, then answered. “PTSD could do with some work. Probably find a therapist, I think. See how I go, maybe more crime scenes if we can pick and choose.” Sherlock nodded emphatically at this query. “Keep seeing Zeph for my shoulder, he’s a miracle worker. Tom can keep taking classes for a while to get my shoulder right.” John trailed his fingers over Sherlock’s shirt, feeling the musculature beneath it. “What about you, are you still going to come to train?” John asked. He thought it could still be good for Sherlock, though he’d have to be tactful about how he said that, probably.

“Well, I do have the sex now, which is better than training.” Sherlock considered.

“Hey!” John protested. Sherlock grinned, hugging John tighter to him. “You do have to finish the course, you know,” John pointed out. “Another two weeks to go, plus you need to make up the one you missed.”

Sherlock considered this, humming deep in his chest, vibration running through John’s head as it rested on his ribs. “I’ve an in with the instructor, I think I can convince him to pass me anyway.”

“Really,” John said, “Your Koryo is good, but it’s not that good.” He leaned up and kissed Sherlock, hard and slow, and Sherlock groaned, kissing back, tongues stroking and twin flames of desire lighting in their abdomens.

“Not yet,” Sherlock groaned, “But I’m sure you can fix it.”


	29. Epirogu/Balmun - Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy finale (for now, at least).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I can't believe this is the end of this fic! I have loved writing this version of the boys, and I was sorely tempted to just keep going, but I really feel that this is a good stopping point for this part of their story. 
> 
> I hope everyone is okay after The Final Problem airs, feel free to msg me or email me if you need some support or a shock blanket/cup of tea.
> 
> xx Kate

John breathed deeply, a deep calm coming over him. In his head, he heard, “Shi-jak” and his body started moving slowly and deliberately through the motions of Sipjin, several levels above the Koryo he was still teaching Sherlock. He moved with his eyes closed, more meditative than combative, using the excuse to stretch out his body and concentrate on his technique, reveling in the simple ability to move his body without the pains that had been plaguing him since his return from Afghanistan. When he had finished, he stood for a moment in his focus position, breathing and centering his body. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know Sherlock was watching him from the door.

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one,” Sherlock noted, bowing as he entered their practice space.

“Poomse Sipjin,” John told him, “it’s a few levels above Koryo.”

“Oh, just keeping me in my place, then?” Sherlock quipped, raising his eyebrows at John.

“Somebody’s gotta do it,” John told him, then pointed to the blue cross on the floor. They had figured out the exact starting point for Sherlock to be able to complete Koryo without running into the walls. It was tight, but the upper bedroom at Baker Street was functioning nicely as their private practice space. Sherlock had even been making noises about getting 221c fixed up as their own dojang, pointing out that John would then be able to practice or teach as he wished without even leaving the flat, kind of. John loved that Sherlock was so supportive of his plans – he had shrugged when John had admitted that he was thinking of asking Tom to buy him out at owner of the business. He would be able to spend more time helping Sherlock on his cases then, still attending classes and helping Tom out if he wished, but without the expectation of being there every week.

“As long as we can still train, and you’re happy,” Sherlock answered, and  John had kissed him hard.

Now, John was pointing at the blue 'Sherlock Koryo' cross, and he said, “Show me how your Koryo is going, and we can talk about grading, if you’re so confident.”

Sherlock grinned, then stepped over to the mark, turned to face the window, and bowed to John, who returned the gesture. His face grew serene and he breathed deeply, drawing the calm around his mind as John had been teaching him to do before he started working. John could see his shoulders settle, and as he began to move, John again marveled at the long, careful lines he created with his lithe body. He was definitely improving, John thought, even though Koryo would be far beyond what he would need for his grading. In theory, John could simply wait, teaching Sherlock until he was ready for his black belt grading, but it would be fun getting him prepared, and the more training the better. It was amazing what the combination of regular training and regular sex was doing for him, John mused, critically watching him move through the poomse. He was more focused than ever, and with Greg’s encouragement on both sides, a truce had been reached between Sherlock and the staff of NSY. They’d never be good friends, John knew, but at least a grudging respect was being allowed to take root between Sally and Sherlock. Anderson was a lost cause, especially since Sally had finally dropped him, but Lestrade simply reminded him that suspended staff didn’t get paid, and babies were expensive. That always seemed to work, now, and harsh as it was it kept his mouth shut, and kept Sherlock happier.

“Hips, Sherlock,” John said automatically, and he could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he corrected. Every time, John thought with gentle exasperation, “Every time!” He said aloud, squaring Sherlock’s hips up and watching the lines of his body improve immediately.

“You just want your hands on my body,” Sherlock grumbled good naturedly.

John grinned. “Always,” he said, “but it doesn’t mean your hips are square.”

Sherlock did not reply, but moved through the last few moves before completing the poomse, holding his final position for a moment before turning to John and immediately trying to pin him to the mat. John barked a surprised laugh and deliberately dropped to the ground, wrestling Sherlock into submission in “Twelve seconds.” Sherlock complained, though he seemed happy enough with John’s body covering his, pressing him into the soft fall mats on which they lay.

“Better than last time,” John said condescendingly.

Sherlock turned his head and looked into John’s face. “One day I’ll win,” He said with certainty.

“I could say something really soppy here about you already winning in life, if you like,” John offered, then gave a shout of laughter as Sherlock exploited his greatest weakness and tickled him into submission, rolling them both over until he was on top, sitting astride John as he writhed.

“I’m not really into soppy, John.” Sherlock murmured in his ear.

John grinned. “I know,” he said, “but I can’t quite remember what you are into. Think you could remind me?”

Sherlock growled deep in his throat, and John double tapped, causing Sherlock to stop instantly.

“What?” He asked, and John gave him The Look.

“Not here,” John said. He nodded at the shoman on the wall.

“Disrespectful,” Sherlock agreed, though his expression was pained. They both stood, bowed to the shoman, then each other, before bowing again at the door.

“There’s a lot of bowing involved in this training idea, John.” Sherlock grumbled as they made their way down the stairs to the sitting room.

“There is,” John agreed. “More than needed, probably.”

Sherlock grunted an agreement, then slouched onto the couch, clearly a little put out by the change in their location. John looked at him, then started stripping off the t shirt and trackpants in which he was training. Sherlock paid no attention until John walked calmly over and straddled him, naked and clearly aroused, at which Sherlock started, then slowly smiled.

“More clothes than strictly necessary, too.” John added, as his mouth descended on Sherlock’s. 

Bliss, thought John, and a calm mind. Who would have guessed?

FINIS.


End file.
